ON THE WING When Harold arose the next morning his cheeks were still red with the touch of the wind and sun and he looked like a college student just entering upon a vacation.

His grace and dignity of bearing set him apart from the rough workmen with whom he ate, and he did not exchange a single word with anyone but the landlord.

As soon as breakfast was over he went out into the town.
Roseville had only one street, and it was not difficult to learn that Pratt had not yet appeared upon the scene.

It was essentially a prairie village; no tree broke the smooth horizon line.

A great many emigrants were in motion, and their white-topped wagons suggested the sails of minute craft on the broad ocean as they came slowly up the curve to the East and fell away down the slope to the West.