"Well, I'll be blowed!"

"You'll be warmed, I guess."

"Well, I should say!"

"That Baptiste is _some_ fellow."

"Well, yes. Although I sometimes think he is a fool."

"Oh, not so rash!"

"Any man's a fool that would have left Bonesteel with loads yesterday."

"Then I suppose we should be thankful to the fool. A fool's errand will in this case mean many lazy men's comfort."

"And last summer you recall how it rained?"

"I sure do."

"Well, you know that fellow would go out and work in the rain."

"And has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop while I have but thirty."

"I have but ten, but--"

"You will be in the hole--at least behind at the end of this summer."

"But I'm advertised to prove up."

"And leave the country when you have done so."

"Well, of course. I have a house and lot and three acres back in Iowa."

"And Jean Baptiste has 320 acres. In a few years he will have a rich, wonderful farm that will be a factor in the local history and development of this country; it will also mean something for posterity."

"Well, I don't care."

"You drew your land and got it free excepting four dollars an acre to the government. Baptiste bought his and paid for the relinquishment. You were lucky, but it will be up to Jean Baptiste and his kind to make the country. Had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all be in Jerusalem, or the jungle. Let's load the coal."

"Good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the two were at the bin. "Lot's o' truth in it, too. Old Stark needed it. He's too lazy to hitch up a team, so rides to town in that little buggy with one horse hitched to it."

"What are you talking about?" inquired another, coming up at this moment.

"Jean Baptiste."

"So?"

"Barr and Stark have just had a set-to about him."

"M-m?"

"Stark says a man that would come from Bonesteel a day like yesterday was a fool."

"Why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep from freezing, then?"

"Well, Stark is too lazy to care. He's advertised to prove up, you know, and he always has something to say about working."

"Used to come to town after the mail during the rainy spell last summer, and upon seeing Baptiste at work in the field, cry 'Just look at that fool nigger, a workin' in the rain.'" Both laughed. A few minutes later the town was thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last chapter.

Now it happened that day that Augustus M. Barr went to the postoffice and received a heavy envelope. He glanced through the contents with a serious face, and put the papers in his pocket. On the way to his claim, he took them out and went through them again, and returned them to his pocket. A few minutes later he reached into the pocket, drew out what he thought to be the papers, and silently tore them to threads, and flung the bundle of paper to the winds.

When Jean Baptiste left the town for his little sod house on the hill, he saw A.M. Barr just ahead of him. He followed the same route that Barr had taken, and when he reached the draw on the town site that lay between his place and the town, he espied some papers. He picked them up, continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of paper that Barr had cast away. He idly opened the package he held. He wondered at the contents and as he read them through he became curious. The papers had to do with something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe, and Peter Kaden.

"Now that is singular," he said to himself. He continued to read through the papers, and as he did so, another fact became clear to him. Kaden was a sad character. And because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any friendship, lived alone and never visited, the people had begun to regard him as crazy. But now Jean Baptiste understood something that neither he, nor any of the people in the country had dreamed of. He read on. He recalled that the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined but strange at times, had stayed at the Barr claim. Barr had introduced her as his niece. The people wondered at her seclusion. She had a fine claim. Barr had come to him once and spoken about selling it, stating that the girl had fallen heir to an estate in England and was compelled to return therewith.... Later he had succeeded in selling the place. She had disappeared; but he had never forgotten the expressions he had observed upon the face of Christine.... He had thought it singular at the time but had thought little of it since. He read further into the papers, and learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning her he could gather nothing definite. He could not understand about Christine either, except that she had fallen heir to nothing in England; was not there, but not more than three hundred miles from where he stood at that moment. But there was before him what he _did_ understand, and which was that there was something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe, and Peter Kaden, _and something was going to happen_.

CHAPTER VII

THE DAY BEFORE

Never since the night at the sod house had Agnes Stewart been the same person. She could not seem to dismiss Jean Baptiste, and the instance of her providence in getting lost and thereby saving him, from her mind.

His strange words and singular recognition of her was baffling. Being so very curious therefore, she had since learned that he was well known in the community and held in popular favor.

She knew little and understood less with regard to predestination; but she had, since meeting him, recalled that he was the one she had seen in her dream--and loved! She tried to laugh away such a freak; but do what she might, she grew more curious to see him again as the days passed; to talk with him, and learn at last what she was anxious to know--curious to know. _How did he come to utter her name and say that he had waited?_

And, coincident with this, she recalled anew what she had learned--which positively was little--regarding her mother. She had been told that she inherited that one's peculiarity; that her mother had possessed rare eyes, which in a measure explained her own. But she had not been told or knew why her mother had arranged the legacy as she had. Not until the day before she was to marry must she know. And then should she not have won a husband to herself by the time she had reached thirty, she was to have the same then, anyhow. Singular, but in a sense practical.

Well, it was so, and she could only sigh and be patient. Most girls she had known back in "Nubbin Ridge" were usually married by the time they had reached her present age. But she was not quite like other girls, and did not even have a beau.

She wondered if the man she had saved had a sweetheart. And when she thought of this, she had a feeling that she would know in time. And as the days passed she began at last to believe that in some manner he would play a part in her own life. But Agnes Stewart was too innocent to know--at least appeared not to be aware of--_the custom of the country and its law_, and therefore could not appreciate the invisible and socially invincible barrier between them. 'Twas only the man Jean Baptiste she saw and reckoned according to what she understood.

Therefore, because she could get nowhere in her wonderings, as a diversion she turned to the little diary and recorded therein:

JANUARY 20TH, 19-- I have not had the patience since arriving here to record any of the events that have transpired since we left Indiana. We have been here now nearly three weeks. Have not as yet had time to draw any conclusion with regard to the country, but this much I can cheerfully say--and which did not prevail back where we came from--there is spirit in the country, the spirit of the Pioneer.

The weather has been cold, cold every day since we arrived. Because we ran out of urgent provisions soon after coming here I ventured to go to Gregory, which is seven miles distant, for some more. I have been too much upset over what took place on that memorable trip to say much about it. Because I have never kept anything from him, I told papa how I started from the town, became lost, and stayed all night at a house and saved a man thereby. He has been so frightened over what happened that he will not let me go anywhere alone again--not even in the daytime. "Just think, my girl," he has said time and again, "supposing you had not stumbled into that house, you would surely have frozen to death on the plains!" I somehow feel that Dolly would have brought me home; but that is a matter for conjecture. But what I say to papa in return is: "Had I not gotten lost, that man that is known so well about the country must surely have suffered death!" This seems to pacify him, and he is pleased after all to know that my getting lost was so provident and opportune.

He has met the man, Jean Baptiste, (such an odd name,) and likes him very much--in fact, he is very much carried away with him. I have not seen him since the morning I left him at his sod house; but I cannot get out of my mind the events that passed while I was there. Always I can see him look up into my eyes with that strange recognition, and then as he turned, call "_Agnes, it is you. I'm glad you have come for I've waited for you so long._" What that means I would give most half my life to know. I know that I shall never rest in peace until I have become well enough acquainted with him to ask him why and how he knew me. Then followed the morning when he talked to himself and did not know I heard. It is all so vivid in my mind.

Of late I have had an uncontrollable desire. I have wanted to know more of my mother. It seems that if I could have known her, I would understand myself better. I am positive now, that she must have been a rare person. That she was French and very high tempered, papa has told me; and also that she had lived in the West Indies before he met her, but that she was born in France. As to the legacy, he lays that to her peculiarity. She was always peculiar in a way, says he; and that at all times she was mysterious. She had been over almost all the world, and was wise in many things. He thinks I have inherited much of her wit, and that eventually it will express itself in some manner, which is all so strange. I hope, however, it will. To rise in some manner out of the simple, uneventful life I've lived would certainly be appreciated; but whatever it is I cannot conclude.

Should I ever rise in any way, I feel now it would be due in some manner to my meeting that strange colored man. I have wondered so often since meeting him, how it feels to be a Negro. Papa and I have discussed it often since. I understand there is a sort of prejudice against the race in this country; that in the South they are held down and badly treated; that in the North, even, they are not fairly treated. Papa and I were both agreed about it. We cannot understand why one should be disliked because his skin is dark; or because his ancestors were slaves. But withal I cannot understand how one could deal unfairly with them because of this. It is said that some of the race are very ignorant and vicious; that they very often commit the unspeakable crime. I suppose that is possible. If so, then they should be educated. Take this Jean Baptiste, for instance, an educated man, and what a gentleman! But papa, (he is very vindictive!) he says that only about half the colored people in this country are full blood; that in the days of slavery and since, even, the white man who is very often ready to abuse the black men, has been the cause of this mixture.... I should think their consciences would disturb them.

Oh, well, I am glad that I have grown up where prejudice against races is not a custom. My mother was French; my father Scotch all through, and because I know him and am so ingrained with his liberal traditions--even tho' he be poor,--I am at peace with all mankind.