The house, of red brick, one story,
ran low and long beneath the trees. Through its middle, dividing its
six rooms in half, extended a broad, arched passageway, picturesque
with flowering cactus and hanging red earthern jars. A "gallery," low
and broad, encircled the building. Vines climbed about it, and the
adjacent ground was, for a space, covered with transplanted grass and
shrubs. A little lake, long and narrow, glimmered in the sun at the
rear. Further away stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, the
corrals, wool sheds and shearing pens. To the right lay the low hills,
splattered with dark patches of chaparral; to the left the unbounded
green prairie blending against the blue heavens.
"It's a home, Teddy," said Octavia, breathlessly; that's what it
is--it's a home."
"Not so bad for a sheep ranch," admitted Teddy, with excusable pride.
"I've been tinkering on it at odd times."
A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass, and took charge of
the creams. The mistress and the manager entered the house.
"Here's Mrs. MacIntyre," said Teddy, as a placid, neat, elderly lady
came out upon the gallery to meet them. "Mrs. Mac, here's the boss.
Very likely she will be wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beans
after her drive."
Mrs.
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