"'This property was secured by Colonel Beaupree in a deal with a
Western irrigation syndicate, and the title to it seems to be perfect.
With careful management and the natural increase of land values, it
ought to be made the foundation for a comfortable fortune for its
owner.'"
When Octavia ceased reading, Aunt Ellen uttered something as near a
sniff as her breeding permitted.
"The prospectus," she said, with uncompromising metropolitan
suspicion, "doesn't mention the centipedes, or the Indians. And you
never did like mutton, Octavia. I don't see what advantage you can
derive from this--desert."
But Octavia was in a trance. Her eyes were steadily regarding
something quite beyond their focus. Her lips were parted, and her face
was lighted by the kindling furor of the explorer, the ardent,
stirring disquiet of the adventurer. Suddenly she clasped her hands
together exultantly.
"The problem solves itself, auntie," she cried. "I'm going to that
ranch. I'm going to live on it. I'm going to learn to like mutton,
and even concede the good qualities of centipedes--at a respectful
distance. It's just what I need. It's a new life that comes when my
old one is just ending. It's a release, auntie; it isn't a narrowing.
Think of the gallops over those leagues of prairies, with the wind
tugging at the roots of your hair, the coming close to the earth
and learning over again the stories of the growing grass and the
little wild flowers without names! Glorious is what it will be.
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