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“Women aren’t always useless,” she said, at parting; “and you tell your chums that when they get hungry for a slice of homemade bread they can get it here. And the next time they go by, I want them to stop in and look at the children. It’ll do them good. They may think they won’t enjoy themselves, but they will.”

“Oh, I’ll answer for that!” cried he, shaking hands with her. “I’ll tell them we have just the right sort of a neighbor.”

“Thank you,” said she, heartily. “And you may tell them that her name is Catherine Ford.”

Once at home, he told his story.

“H’m!” said Gillispie, “I guess I’ll have to go to town myself to-morrow.”

Henderson looked at him blackly. “She’s a woman alone, Gillispie,” said he, severely, “trying to make her way with handicaps –“

“Shet up, can’t ye, ye darned fool?” roared Gillispie. “What do yeh take me fur?”

Waite was putting on his rubber coat preparatory to going out for his night with the cattle. “Guess you’re makin’ a mistake, my boy,” he said, gently. “There ain’t no danger of any woman bein’ treated rude in these parts.”

“I know it, by Jove!” cried Henderson, in quick contriteness.

“All right,” grunted Gillispie, in tacit acceptance of this apology. “I guess you thought you was in civilized parts.”

Two days after this Waite came in late to his supper. “Well, I seen her,” he announced.

“Oh! did you?” cried Henderson, knowing perfectly well whom he meant. “What was she doing?”

“Killin’ snakes, b’gosh! She says th’ baby’s crazy fur um, an’ so she takes aroun’ a hoe on her shoulder wherever she goes, an’ when she sees a snake, she has it out with ‘im then an’ there. I says to ‘er, ‘Yer don’t expec’ t’ git all th’ snakes outen this here country, d’ yeh?’ ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m as good a man as St. Patrick any day.’ She is a jolly one, Henderson. She tuk me in an’ showed me th’ kids, and give me a loaf of gingerbread to bring home. Here it is; see?”

“Hu!” said Gillispie. “I’m not in it.” But for all of his scorn he was not above eating the gingerbread.

It was gardening time, and the three Johns were putting in every spare moment in the little paling made of willow twigs behind the house. It was little enough time they had, though, for the cattle were new to each other and to the country, and they were hard to manage. It was generally conceded that Waite had a genius for herding, and he could take the “mad” out of a fractious animal in a way that the others looked on as little less than superhuman. Thus it was that one day, when the clay had been well turned, and the seeds arranged on the kitchen table, and all things prepared for an afternoon of busy planting, that Waite and Henderson, who were needed out with the cattle, felt no little irritation at the inexplicable absence of Gillispie, who was to look after the garden. It was quite nightfall when he at last returned. Supper was ready, although it had been Gillispie’s turn to prepare it.

Henderson was sore from his saddle, and cross at having to do more than his share of the work. “Damn yeh!” he cried, as Gillispie appeared. “Where yeh been?”

“Making garden,” responded Gillispie, slowly.

“Making garden!” Henderson indulged in some more harmless oaths.

Just then Gillispie drew from under his coat a large and friendly looking apple-pie. “Yes,” he said, with emphasis; “I’ve bin a-makin’ garden fur Mis’ Ford.”

And so it came about that the three Johns knew her and served her, and that she never had a need that they were not ready to supply if they could. Not one of them would have thought of going to town without stopping to inquire what was needed at the village. As for Catherine Ford, she was fighting her way with native pluck and maternal unselfishness. If she had feared solitude she did not suffer from it. The activity of her life stifled her fresh sorrow. She was pleasantly excited by the rumors that a railroad was soon to be built near the place, which would raise the value of the claim she was “holding down” many thousand dollars.