It was the first time she had ever used the tone of authority and she
instinctively recognized that the quality of her personality in that
position was good. Both she and Jake Ransom were on trial in that room.

"So you are the 'Jake' I have heard about?" she said, looking him frankly
in the face and letting him see that she was measuring him openly. "Is
your name Jake or Jacob?" she asked, as if it were an important matter to
get settled.

"Don't call me Jacob," the boy snapped.

"I think I like the nickname better myself," Elizabeth replied easily. Her
good fairy beckoned her on. "These children are all laughing because they
think we are going to pull each other's hair presently. We will show them
at least that we are a lady and a gentleman, I trust. Let me see your
books." She looked at him with such straightforward sincerity that the boy
returned the look in the same spirit.

The books were produced in surprise; this was walking into the middle of
the ring and bidding for an _open_ fight, if fight they must. The boy
loved a square deal. Jake Ransom's sting had been drawn.

"You are in advance of the rest of the school. Are you preparing for the
high school?" Elizabeth asked, emphasizing her surprise.

"Lord, no!" the boy blurted out.

Elizabeth looked through the book in her hand slowly before she asked:

"Why don't you? I was only about as far along as this in arithmetic last
year. Some one said you were ready for it."

"Oh, I kin do 'rithmetic all right, but I ain't no good in nothin'
else--an'--an'--wouldn't I look fine teachin' school?" Jake Ransom
exclaimed, but the bully melted out of him by way of the fact that she had
heard good reports of him. He would not smoke this level-eyed girl out of
the schoolhouse, nor sprinkle the floor with cayenne, as was the usual
proceeding of the country bumpkin who failed to admire his teacher. Jake
Ransom was not really a bully; he was a shy boy who had been domineered
over by a young popinjay of a teacher who had never taught school before
and who had himself many lessons to learn in life's school. The boy
brought out his slate, spit on its grimy surface and wiped it with his
sleeve. One of the buttons on his cuff squeaked as he wiped it across, and
the children had something tangible to laugh at. Elizabeth was wise enough
to take no notice of that laugh.

Some one has said that experience is not as to duration but as to
intensity, and it was Elizabeth's fate to live at great pressure in every
important stage of her life. But for the fact that she had made a friend
of Jake Ransom that month's events would have had a different story. Sadie
Crane took exceptions to every move made and every mandate issued from the
teacher's desk. The spirit of insubordination to which the entire school
had been subjected that winter made good soil for Sadie's tares. For the
most part the dissatisfaction was a subtle thing, an undercurrent of which
Elizabeth was aware, but upon which she could lay no finger of rebuke, but
at times it was more traceable, and then, to the young teacher's surprise,
Jake Ransom had ways of dealing with the offenders outside of school
hours. Sadie's tongue was sharp and she was accustomed to a wholesome
attitude of fear among the scholars, but her first thrusts at Jake had
aroused a demon of which she had little dreamed. Jake had no foolish pride
and would admit his faults so guilelessly that her satire fell to the
ground. He was an entirely new sort to the spiteful child. The terrible
advantage the person who will admit his faults cheerfully has over the one
who has pride and evades was never more manifest. Jake Ransom pointed out
to a credulous following the causes of Sadie's disaffection, and left the
envious child in such a state of futile rage that she was ready to burst
with her ill-directed fury. In the end the month's work had to be granted
the tribute of success, and the term closed with a distinct triumph for
Elizabeth and the experience of a whole year's trial crowded into four
short weeks.

At home things were not so fortunate. The young girl had come back from
Topeka with higher ideals of home life, of personal conduct, and of good
manners than she had ever had before. It was so good to have something
better, and Elizabeth hungered to pass along the transforming things she
had found; but when she tried to give the boys gentle hints about correct
ways of eating she was greeted with guffaws and sarcastic chuckles about
handling soup with a fork. Mrs. Farnshaw saw nothing but Susan Hornby's
interference, Mr. Farnshaw told her to attend to her own affairs until her
help was desired, and when the child was rebuffed and unable to hide her
disappointment and retired within herself, both parents resented the
evident and growing difference between her and themselves.

It was to escape from a home which was unendurable that Elizabeth
flat-footedly, and for the first time, refused to accede to her parents'
authority. When the matter of a spring term of school came up for
discussion she refused to teach the home school again, though Mr. Crane
had been so pleased with her work that he had offered it to her. When
asked if Jake Ransom was the objection she indignantly asserted to the
contrary.

"He was the best pupil I had," she said, "but I don't want to teach at
home, and I won't do it," and that was all she would say. She secured a
school ten miles north of her home; ten miles had been the nearest point
which she would consider.

The interest was at last paid, but when the summer groceries were paid for
there was no money left with which to go back to Topeka, and it was
necessary to teach a winter school. Elizabeth went to work anew to collect
funds for another year's schooling. Mr. Farnshaw sold himself short of
corn in the fall, however, and the young girl was expected to make up the
deficit. In the spring the interest was to be paid again, and so at the
end of a year and a half the situation was unchanged. The next year a
threshing machine was added to the family assets, and again the cry of
"help" went up, again Elizabeth's plans were sacrificed. The next year the
interest was doubled, and for four years Elizabeth Farnshaw worked against
insurmountable odds.

CHAPTER IV

A CULTURED MAN

When no remonstrance of hers availed to prevent the constant increase of
expenses, Elizabeth saw that her assistance, instead of helping the family
to get out of debt, was simply the means of providing toys for
experimentation, and that she was being quietly but persistenly euchred
out of all that her heart cherished. Mr. Farnshaw valued the machinery he
was collecting about him, Mrs. Farnshaw valued the money, partly because
in one way and another it added to the family possessions, and also
because her husband having found out that he could obtain it through her
easier than by direct appeal, she could avoid unpleasantness with him by
insisting upon her daughter giving it to him; but Elizabeth's education
was valued by no one but Elizabeth, and unless she were to learn her
lesson quickly the time for an education to be obtained would have
passed.

"It's of no use for you to talk to me, ma," Elizabeth said the spring
after she was twenty years old, "I shall keep every cent I make this
summer. Pa gets into debt and won't let anybody help him out, and I am
going to go to Topeka this fall. I'm years older right now than the rest
of the scholars will be--not a single pupil that was there when I went
before will be there--and I'm going to go. I don't ever intend to pay the
interest on that old mortgage again--it's just pouring money into a
rat-hole!"

[Illustration: "'NOW LOOK HERE, LIZZIE, ... YOUR PA EXPECTS IT'"]

It was early morning and they were planting potatoes. Her mother stood
with her back turned toward the raw April wind as they talked, her old
nubia tied loosely about her head and neck, and her hands red with the
cold.

"Now look here, Lizzie"--Mrs. Farnshaw always refused to use the full
name--"your pa expects it."

"Of course he expects it; that's why he keeps adding to the mortgage; but
that don't make any difference. I'm going to Topeka this fall just the
same. I am not going to pay one dollar on the interest in May, and you can
tell pa if you like."

Mrs. Farnshaw was alarmed. Elizabeth had protested and tried to beg off
from the yearly stipend before, but never in that manner. The tone her
daughter had used frightened her and she quivered with an unacknowledged
fear. Her husband's wrath was the Sheol she fought daily to avoid. What
would become of them if the interest were not paid?

Added to Mrs. Farnshaw's personal desire to command her daughter's funds
there was the solid fear of her husband's estimate of her failure. She
could not look in his eye and tell him that she was unable to obtain their
daughter's consent. To live in the house with him after Lizzie had told
him herself was equally unthinkable, for his wrath would be visited upon
her own head.

"My child! My child!" she cried, "you don't have to be told what he will
do t' me."

There was a long pause while she sobbed. The pause became a compelling
one; some one had to speak.

"I can't help it, ma," Elizabeth said doggedly after a time.

"Oh, but you don't know what it means. Come on to th' house. I can't work
no more, an' I've got t' talk this thing out with you."

They picked up the pails and the hoe with which they had been covering the
hills and went to the house, carrying a burden that made a potato-planting
day a thing of no consequence.

The mother busied herself with the cob fire as she argued, and Elizabeth
put away the old mittens with which she had protected her hands from the
earth which never failed to leave them chapped, before she picked up the
broom and began an onslaught on the red and fluffy dust covering the
kitchen floor.

"You see, You'll go off t' teach an' won't know nothin' about it,
an'--an'--I'll have it t' bear an'----" The pause was significant.

Mrs. Farnshaw watched her daughter furtively and strained her ears for
signs of giving up. At last Elizabeth said slowly:

"I'm as sorry as I can be, ma, but--I'm twenty years old, and I've _got_
to go."

There was no doubting that her mind was made up, and yet her mother threw
herself against that stone wall of determination in frantic despair.

"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie! I can't live an' have you do it. You don't know,
child, what I have to bear."

"Now look here, ma; you won't let me have things out openly with pa and
come to an understanding with him, and when I told you four years ago that
you ought to leave him if you couldn't live with him peaceably you talked
as if I had committed some sort of sin. You and pa are determined to fuss
it out and I can't help it, and I've sacrificed four good years to you and
the interest is bigger than it ever was. I haven't helped you one bit. If
you want to go on living with him You'll do it in your own way, but if
your life is unbearable, and you want to leave him, I'll see that you are
provided for. The law would give you a share of this----"

The noise of the broom and of their voices had prevented them from hearing
any other sounds, but a shadow fell across the middle door and Josiah
Farnshaw entered the kitchen a blazing picture of wrath. Before he could
speak, however, the dog on the doorstep barked sharply at a stranger who
was close upon him, and the irate father was obliged to smooth his
manner.

Elizabeth escaped to the bedroom as her father crossed to the kitchen to
see what the man wanted, and Mr. Farnshaw went on out to the pens a moment
later with the "hog buyer," as the man proved to be.

"My God! My God! What have you done?" Mrs. Farnshaw cried, following
Elizabeth into the bedroom.

"I don't know, ma," the girl cried, as white as her mother. "I'm going to
get off to hunt up a school while that man is here. The sun has come out
and it's only ten o'clock. If you're afraid, come along," she advised, as
she hurried into a clean calico dress and took down her old black riding
skirt from its nail.

"Lizzie!" the mother exclaimed, as much afraid of the advice as she was of
her husband.

There was little time left her for argument, for Elizabeth hurriedly tied
a thick green veil over her plain straw hat and left the house. The hog
pens were on the opposite side of the stable from the house and Elizabeth
soon had Patsie, now a mare of five years, saddled and bridled.

The air was softening, and it occurred to her that it was going to rain,
as she hurried out of the yard, but she did not wait to get extra wraps
nor her umbrella. The best thing to do, she knew, was to get away while
that hog buyer was there and trust to luck for the edge of her father's
anger to wear away before she returned.

Fortunately she had worn her old coat, which was heavy and waterproof, and
when it did begin to rain half an hour later, instead of turning back she
pressed forward, more afraid of the thunderstorm at home than any to be
encountered on the way.

Elizabeth rode steadily southward, thinking out her share in this new
quarrel in which she had embroiled her parents, unaware that as it
drizzled it became warmer and that the day had become spring-like and
endurable. She began to question the propriety of having suggested drastic
measures to her mother. "Till death do you part" rang in her ears in spite
of the certainty that the union of her mother and her father was an unholy
thing which was damning them more surely than a separation could possibly
do. Of only one thing could Elizabeth be sure: she saw without mistake at
last that she must decide upon her own duties hereafter without listening
to a mother who could not decide anything for herself.

The director of the district to which Elizabeth first turned her steps was
away from home when she arrived and it was necessary to consider where she
would go next. After some thought she decided to try the Chamberlain
district, which lay between there and her home. It was eight miles from
the Farnshaw homestead and far enough away so that she would not have to
board with her parents and she determined to try to meet the school board,
which met usually on the first Tuesday night in April.

The fact of facing around toward the north again set her to considering
what course of action she would pursue when she went back home.

"I'll go back, I guess, and be patient with whatever he feels like doing
with me," she resolved, reflecting that from her father's standpoint he
had a very real grievance against her. "It was a dreadful thing for him to
hear me advising ma to leave him. I guess I owe it to them to try to
straighten it up. But I don't believe it can ever be straightened up," she
ended doubtfully.

Elizabeth was passing a grove of young cottonwood trees and was so
absorbed in her thoughts that, becoming only half conscious that Patsie
was lagging and that time was passing rapidly, she gave her a slap with
the strap in her hand, urging the horse to a faster pace as she rounded
the corner of the section without looking up. Patsie broke into a long,
easy lope. Suddenly Elizabeth became conscious of the noise of other hoofs
splashing toward them. Glancing up, she saw a farm team almost upon them,
whose driver was stooped to avoid the rain.

Elizabeth pulled her horse up sharply, and to one side. The trail was an
old one, and the sloping, washed-out rut was deep. Patsie lost her footing
and, after a slipping plunge or two, fell floundering on her side before
her mistress could support her with the rein. Active as a boy, Elizabeth
loosened her foot from the stirrup and flung herself to the other side of
the road, out of the way of the dangerous hoofs. Elizabeth slipped as her
feet struck the ground and she landed on "all-fours" in the grass.

The young man, suddenly awake to what had happened, was out of his high
seat and had the mare by the bridle before its rider had fairly scrambled
up.

"I beg your pardon! Are you hurt?" he called across the wagon, when
Patsie, still nervous from her fall, hung back as far as her rein would
permit and not only refused to be led but threatened to break away
altogether.

"Not at all! Not a bit! Whoa! Patsie! Whoa! Lady!" Elizabeth cried, coming
around to them, and extending a smeary, dripping hand for the taut rein.

The young man let her step in front of him and put her hand on the strap,
but kept his own there as well, while they both followed the backing horse
with braced steps, the girl talking soothingly to the frightened animal
the while. The naturally docile filly responded to the voice she had heard
from earliest colthood and soon let Elizabeth approach close enough to put
her hand on the bit. The seriousness of the affair gave way to the comic
when the horse began to snatch bits of grass from the roadside.

The young couple laughed and looked at each other rather sheepishly as
they saw that further cooperation was not needed. They untangled their
hands where they had slipped tight together in the loop of the bridle rein
as they had followed the rearing beast.

"She has broken the girth," the young man said, lifting his hat
ceremoniously and with a manner not born of life on the farm.

He threw the stirrup over the top of the saddle and fished under the now
quiet horse for her dangling surcingle. Having secured it, he untied the
strap and examined it to see if it were sufficiently long to permit of
tying another knot. Deciding that it was, he tied one end in the ring in
the saddle and, passing the other through the ring of the girth, drew it
up with a strong, steady pull. His side face against the saddle, as he
pulled, permitted him to examine curiously the young girl in front of
him.

"Are you sure you are not hurt at all?" he asked solicitously.

"Not a bit--only muddy," she replied, stooping to brush her earth-stained
hands through the rain-laden grass at the roadside. He was still working
with the straps when her hands were cleaned and watched her openly as she
shielded her face behind Patsie's head while waiting. The water dripped
from the ends of her braided brown hair and the long dark lashes of her
brown eyes were mist-laden also. He examined all the accoutrements of her
mount minutely. When at last it occurred to her that he was giving them
extra attention for the sake of extending the time Elizabeth's eyes
lighted up with a humorous twinkle. The young man caught and rightly
interpreted the expression and was embarrassed.

"I think it's all right," he said quickly. "I'm awfully sorry to have been
so stupid. I never thought of meeting any one in all this rain."

Elizabeth took that as a reflection upon her presence out of doors on such
a day, and leading her horse down into the deep road sprang into the
saddle from the bank before he could offer his assistance.

"Thank you for helping me," she said, and was off toward the west before
he could speak.

She was gone, and he could do nothing but look after her helplessly.

"Your horse has lamed itself," he called when he was at last able to
concern himself with such matters, but either the spattering hoofbeats
prevented her hearing his voice or she was determined not to reply; he
could not tell which. There was nothing to do but return to his wagon.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "Now you've made an ass of yourself and let
her get away without finding out who she was or where she lived." He liked
her--and he was an ass! He anathematized himself openly.

When well away from the man, Elizabeth saw that his observation regarding
the prospects of meeting people on such a day was a perfectly natural one
and not aimed at her at all. She laughed at the spectacle she was sure she
must have presented, and wished now that she had not been in such a hurry
in leaving him. Here was a man worth looking at. The gesture as he had
lifted his hat indicated refinement.

"Curious that I haven't seen him--he lives here some where," she pondered,
and now that she could not find out she rated herself severely for the
embarrassment which was apt to assail her at critical moments.

Patsie limped miserably, and Elizabeth brought her down to a walk and let
her droop along the old country road, and speculated on this new specimen
of masculinity which had dropped from the skies to puzzle and delight her
soul.

The rain beat heavily now, and Elizabeth began to take her situation into
account after thinking over the stranger a few minutes. There was a
perfect deluge of water from the burdened sky, and though no sign of a
house could be seen, she knew she could not be far from the Chamberlain
homestead; but the ground was becoming more and more soggy, and her
garments were not of the heaviest. Patsie's feet went ploop, ploop, ploop,
in the soft, muddy road. Elizabeth urged her to the fastest possible
walking speed in spite of her lameness. To trot or gallop was impossible,
and the young horse slipped now and then in a manner which would have
unseated a less skilful rider.

The sodden Kansas road was aflood with this spring rain. Patsie laboured
heavily and Elizabeth gave herself up to her cogitations again. Her mind
had reacted to more pleasant subjects than home affairs.

It had been a dreary, disheartening ride, and yet it had had its
compensations, for was not the rider young and the earth filled with the
freshness of spring? The short and tender grass bordered the road to the
very wheel-ruts; the meadow larks sang regardless of the rain, or mayhap
in sheer meadow-lark delight because of it. To the south a prairie chicken
drummed, and a cow called to her calf, whose reply came from a point still
farther in the distance. At the sound of the cow's lowing Elizabeth
Farnshaw peered delightedly through mists.

"I knew it couldn't be much farther, Patsie," she said, leaning forward
and patting the neck of the dripping horse. Little spurts of water flew
spatteringly from under the affectionate palm, and Elizabeth shook her
bare hand to free it from the wet hairs which adhered to it, laughing at
her rainsoaked condition.

It was indeed a time for seeking shelter.

Presently the rattle of a chain was heard nearby, then the outlines of a
straw stable were seen, and from the foreground of mist a man appeared
unhitching a team of horses from a large farm wagon. Patsie gave a little
nicker of anticipation as she scented the sacks of oats, carefully
covered, in the back of the wagon. The old man rose from his stooping
position in unfastening the tugs and faced the newcomer.

"Why, it's Miss Farnshaw! Gee whiz! Be you a duck t' be out on such a day
as this?" he inquired, stepping forward when he saw that she was coming
in. Then chuckling at his own humour, he added:

"I guess you be a goslin'--a goslin' bein' a young goose, you know."

Elizabeth Farnshaw laughed. "But my feathers aren't turning the rain, Mr.
Chamberlain." It was the second time within the hour that she had been
reminded that women were not expected to go out of doors in a rainstorm.

"That's because you're such a young goose, you know; you ain't got no
feathers yet, it's only down."

"Fairly caught!" she replied, backing her horse around so that the rain
would come from behind, "Tell me, does the school board meet to-night?"

"Oh, ho!" the farmer replied, "that's th' way th' wind blows, is it? Now
look here, young lady, if you be as prompt in lickin' them youngsters in
season an' out o' season as you be in lookin' up schools I guess You'll
do. Yes, sir-ee, th' school board meets to-night an' you jes' come t' th'
house an' have a bite t' eat an' we'll see what we can do for you. Why,
stars an' garters!" he exclaimed as he lifted her down from her horse,
"Liza Ann 'll have t' put you in th' oven along with th' rest of th'
goslins." Then he added: "Now you run along to th' house, an' I'll take
this horse in hand. I judge by its nicker you didn't stop for no dinner
to-day."

Mrs. Chamberlain appeared at the door and her husband called to her,

"Liza Ann! here's Miss Farnshaw, as wet as that last brood of chickens you
found under th' corn-planter. Give 'er a dry pair of shoes an' take 'er
wet coat off o' 'er."

As Elizabeth turned to her hostess, the old man exclaimed, "Why, Gosh all
Friday, what's happened to your horse?"

"I'm awfully worried about Patsie's foot. She slipped in the muddy road
this afternoon. Do you suppose It'll lay her up? It's a busy time and pa
needs her."

"I don't know; it's in a ticklish place. I'll rub it good with Mustang
liniment; that's th' best thing I know of. Now you run on to th' house;
you're wet enough t' wake up lame yourself in th' mornin'," he admonished,
straightening up, with his hands on the small of his back.

Having dismissed Elizabeth, Silas Chamberlain took Patsie's saddle from
her back and laid it across Old Queen's harness, taking his own team into
the barn first. Old Queen was an unsocial animal and it was necessary to
tie her in the far stall when a strange horse was brought into the barn,
as she had a way of treating intruders badly. She sniffed at the saddle
distrustfully as Mr. Chamberlain tied her up.

"Whoa! there!" he said emphatically, giving her a slap on the flank which
sent her into the opposite corner of the stall. "You needn't be s' all
fired touchy you can't let a strange saddle come into th' stall. That
saddle's carried th' pluckiest girl in this end of th' county t'day.
Gosh-a-livin's! Think of her a comin' out on a day like this, an' smilin'
at them wet feathers, as she called 'em, 's if it didn't make no
difference bein' wet at all. Now if John Hunter gets his eyes on 'er
there'll be an end of ma's board money; an' then how'll I finish payin'
fur that sewin' machine?"

In the house, after some time spent in trying to be stiffly polite to her
guest, the unwilling hostess began the supper. The potatoes were put on to
fry, the kettle sang, and Mrs. Chamberlain sat down to grind the coffee in
a mill which she grasped firmly between her knees.

"Maybe you 'uns don't drink coffee?" she remarked anxiously, stopping to
look over at the girl, who sat near the fire drying her shoes in the
oven.

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth answered slowly, coming back reluctantly from a
consideration of the handsome stranger she had met; "that is," she added
confusedly, "I never drink anything but water, anyhow."

Mrs. Chamberlain gave a relieved sigh. "I was afraid you'd rather have
tea, an' I ain't got no tea in th' house. Bein' farmin' season now it
seems as if I can't never get t' town."

Just then one adventurous chick which, with the rest of the brood, had
been discovered under the corn-planter earlier in the day, jumped out of
the box in which it had been kept near the fire. Mrs. Chamberlain set the
mill on the table and gave chase to the runaway.

"That's th' peertest chicken of th' lot," she remarked as she again
enveloped him in the old woollen skirt, from the folds of which came much
distressed cheeping. "They're hungry, I think," she added, reaching for a
bowl of yellow cornmeal which she mixed with water. Lifting the skirt off
the little brood carefully, and giving it a cautious shake to assure
herself that no unwary chick was caught in its folds, she dropped some of
the mixture in the middle of the box, tapping lightly with the spoon to
call the attention of the chicks to its presence. The chickens pecked
hungrily, and there was a satisfied note in the twitterings of the downy
little group as Mrs. Chamberlain turned to the preparation of her supper
again.

"Yes, he's th' peertest chicken of th' lot; an' I'd most as soon he'd been
more like th' rest--he's always gettin' out of th' box."

"Now, Liza Ann, you ain't thinkin' nothin' of th' kind," said her husband,
who had hurried with his evening chores so as to get a chance to visit
with the company and had just come in from the stable. "You know you said
yourself, 'Thank goodness, there's one on 'em alive,' when you fished 'em
out from under that planter. Th' same thing's keeping 'im on th' go now
that kept 'im from givin' up as quick as th' rest did then. Chicken's is
like boys, Miss Farnshaw," Silas continued, addressing Elizabeth; "th'
ones that makes th' most trouble when thy're little, you can count on as
bein' th' most likely when they're growed up. Now, Liza Ann there counted
on that chicken soon's ever she set eyes on 'im."

Having washed his face and hands in the tin basin on the bench just
outside the kitchen door, Silas Chamberlain combed his curly locks of iron
gray before the little looking glass which was so wrinkled that he looked
like some fantastic caricature when mirrored on its surface. After a short
grace at the opening of the meal, he passed a dish of potatoes,
remarking:

"We ain't much hands t' wait on th' table, Miss Farnshaw; You'll have t'
reach an' help yourself."

"Who's this plate for?" Elizabeth asked at last, designating the vacant
place at her side.

"That's John's," said Mrs. Chamberlain.

"John Hunter's, Miss Farnshaw," said Silas. "He's our boarder, an' th'
likeliest young man in these parts." Then he added with conviction, "You
two be goin' t' like each other."

A girlish blush covered the well-tanned cheeks, and to hide her
embarrassment Elizabeth said with a laugh:

"Describe this beau ideal of yours."

"Now, Si, do let th' child alone," Mrs. Chamberlain protested. "He's
always got t' tease," she added deprecatingly.

"Sometimes I be an' sometimes not. Miss Farnshaw made me think of you some
way when I see her this afternoon." Noting his wife's look of surprise, he
explained: "I mean when I see you down to th' Cherryvale meetin' house.
An' it didn't take me long t' make up my mind after that, neither."

Mrs. Chamberlain smiled at the mention of girlhood days, but said nothing,
and Silas turned to Elizabeth again with his honest face alight with
memories of youth.

"You see, Miss Farnshaw, I'd gone out on th' hunt of a stray calf, an' an
unexpected shower came on--th' kind that rains with th' sun still a
shinin'--an' I dug my heels into old Charlie's flanks an' hurried along
down th' road to th' meeting house, a few rods farther on, when what
should I see but a pretty girl on th' steps of that same place of refuge!
Well, I begged 'er pardon, but I stayed on them there steps till that
shower cleared off. Most of th' time I was a prayin' that another cloud
would appear, an' I didn't want it no bigger than a man's hand neither.
No, sir-ee, I wouldn't 'a' cared if it'd 'a' been as big as th' whole Bay
of Biscay. An' what I was thinkin' jest now was that there was about th'
same fundamental differences 'tween you an' John Hunter that th' was
'tween Liza Ann an' me. He's light haired an' blue eyed, an tall an' slim,
an' he's openin' up a new farm, an' 'll need a wife. He talks of his
mother comin' out t' keep house for him, but, law's sakes! she wasn't
raised on a farm an' wouldn't know nothin' about farm work. Oh, yes, I
forgot t' tell you th' best part of my story: I got t' carry Miss Liza Ann
Parkins home on old Charlie, 'cause th' crick rose over th' banks outen
th' clouds of rain I prayed for!"

"Now, Si Chamberlain, there ain't a word of truth in that, an' you know
it," said his wife, passing Elizabeth a hot biscuit. "I walked home by th'
turnpike road, Miss Farnshaw, though we did wait a bit, till it dried up a
little."

Her husband's laugh rang out; he had trapped Liza Ann into the discussion,
in spite of herself, and he had trapped her into an admission as well.

"Well," he said, "I may be mistaken about th' details, but I've always had
a soft spot in my heart for th' rainy days since that particular time."

"But you haven't told me why Mr. Hunter isn't here to eat his supper,"
said Elizabeth, "nor have you told me what he is like."

"Oh, he's gone over to Colebyville for his mail, an' won't be home till
late--in all this mud. As to what he's like--it ain't easy t' tell what
John's like; he's--he's a university feller; most folks say he's a dude,
but we like him?"

"What university?" Elizabeth asked with a quick indrawn breath; she knew
now whom she had met on the road that afternoon.

"He comes from Illinois. I guess it's th' State University--I never asked
him. His father died an' left him this land an' he's come out here to farm
it. Couldn't plow a straight furrow t' save his life when he come a little
over a year ago, but he's picked up right smart," Silas added, thereby
giving the information the young girl wanted.

This young man was to be in this neighbourhood all summer. Still another
reason for applying for the Chamberlain school.

As Elizabeth helped Liza Ann with her dishwashing after supper, John
Hunter came in. The ground had been too soft for them to hear the wagon
when he drove up. Silas introduced them promptly and added with a grin:

"You've heard of folks that didn't know enough t' come in out of th' rain?
Well, that's her!"

John Hunter's eyes twinkled an amused recognition, but he did not mention
the accident in which Patsie had come to grief.

"I am very glad to meet you, Miss Farnshaw; we are both wet weather
birds."

Seeing Liza Ann reach for a frying pan, he addressed himself to her:

"Never mind any supper for me, Mrs. Chamberlain. I knew I'd be late, as I
had to go around by Warren's after I got back, and I got an early supper
at the new hotel before I left town!"

"The extravagance of that!" exclaimed Mrs. Chamberlain, to whom hotel
bills were unknown.

John Hunter went to the door to clean some extra mud off his boot tops,
and to hide a wide and fatuous smile at the thought of tricking Silas out
of his accustomed joke. He felt nearer the girl, because she too had been
silent regarding the afternoon encounter. He liked the mutuality of it and
resolved that it should not be the last touch of that sort between them.
While not really intellectual, John Hunter had the polish and tastes of
the college man, and here he reflected was a girl who seemed near being on
his own level. She looked, he thought, as if she could see such small
matters as bespattered clothes.

Silas followed him out. "You didn't bed them horses down did you?" he
asked.

"No. I expect we'd better do it now and have it out of the way."

As they entered the dark stable and felt their way along the back of the
little alley, behind the stalls, for the pitchforks, the younger man asked
indifferently:

"Who did you say the young lady was?"

"Oh, ho!" shouted Silas; "it didn't take you long. I knew you'd be
courtin' of me along with your questions. Now look here, John Hunter, you
can't go an' carry this schoolma'am off till this here term's finished. I
look fur Carter an' that new director over to-night, for a school meetin',
an' I'm blamed if I'm goin' t' have you cuttin' into our plans--no,
sirr-ee--she's t' be left free t' finish up this school, anyhow, if I help
'er get it."

"No danger! You get her the school; but how does she come to have that air
away out here? Does she come from some town near here?"

"Town nothin'! She was jest raised on these prairies, same as th' rest of
us. Ain't she a dandy! No, sir--'er father's a farmer--'bout as common as
any of us, an' she ain't had no different raisin'. She's different in
'erself somehow. Curious thing how one body'll have a thing an' another
won't, an' can't seem t' get it, even when he wants it an' tries. Now you
couldn't make nothin' but jest plain farmer out of me, no matter what you
done t' me."

"Do you think they'll give her the school?" John asked.

Silas's laugh made the young man uncomfortable. He had intended to avoid
the necessity for it, but had forgotten himself.

"There's Carter now," was all the reply the old man gave as he moved
toward the door, which he could dimly see now that he had been in the
darkness long enough for his eyes to become accustomed to it. The
splashing footsteps of a horse and the voice of a man cautioning it came
from toward the road.

"That you, Carter?" Silas called.

"Yes. This ground's fairly greasy to-night," answered the voice.

"Bring your horse in here; there's room under cover for it," was the
rejoinder.

They tied it in the darkness, feeling their way from strap to manger. "The
Farnshaw girl's here waitin' fur th' school."

"Glad of that," replied the newcomer. "I don't know her very well, but
they say she can handle youngsters. She's had some extry schoolin' too.
Don't know as that makes any difference in a summer term, but it's never
in th' way."

The young man slipped out of the stable, intending to get a word with the
new teacher before the others came to the house. The school was assured to
her with two members of the board in her favour, he reflected. Liza Ann
had gone to the other room, and finding the way clear he asked in a half
whisper:

"Did you lame your horse badly?" And when Elizabeth only nodded and looked
as if she hoped her hostess had not heard, John Hunter was filled with
joy. The mutuality of the reticence put them on the footing of good
fellowship. There was no further opportunity for conversation, as they
heard Silas and Carter on the step and a third party hail them from a
distance.

There was a moment's delay and when the door did at last open Elizabeth
Farnshaw gave a glad cry:

"Uncle Nate! Where in the world did you come from?"

She caught Nathan Hornby by the lapels of his wet overcoat and stood him
off from her, looking at him in such a transport of joy that they were the
centre of an admiring and curious group instantly.

While Nathan explained that they had only last month traded their wooded
eighty for a hundred and sixty acres of prairie land in this district, and
that it had been their plan to surprise her the next Sunday by driving
over to see her before she had heard that they were in that part of the
state, Elizabeth sat on the edge of the wood-box and still held to his
coat as if afraid the vision might vanish from her sight, and asked
questions twice as fast as the pleased old man could answer them, and
learned that Nathan had been appointed to fill out the unexpired term of
the moderator of the Chamberlain school district, with whom he had traded
for the land. The business of the evening was curtailed to give the pair a
chance to talk, and when the contract was signed, Elizabeth said that she
would go home with Nathan, and John Hunter thrust himself into the
felicitous arrangement by taking the young girl over in his farm wagon, it
being decided that Patsie's lameness made it best for her to remain housed
in Silas's barn for the night.

It was a mile and a half along soggy roads to Nathan Hornby's, and John
Hunter made as much of the time fortune had thrown at him as possible.
They sat under one umbrella, and found the distance short, and John told
her openly that he was glad she was to be in his neighbourhood.

CHAPTER V

REACHING HUNGRY HANDS TOWARD A SYMBOL

Susan Hornby's delight over Elizabeth's coming was the most satisfying
thing Nathan had seen since his return from Topeka. He had traded the land
to please his wife, by getting nearer Elizabeth, but the presence of the
girl in the house was so overwhelmingly surprising that Susan was swept by
its very suddenness into shedding tears of actual joy. Elizabeth was put
to the disconcerting necessity of explaining that her mother somewhat
resented Aunt Susan's influence upon her daughter's life when she found
her friends enthusiastically planning visits in the near future. She
softened the details as much as possible and passed it over as only a bit
of maternal jealousy, but was obliged to let this dear friend see that it
was rather a serious matter in her calculations. Susan Hornby now
understood why Elizabeth had never visited her in these four years.

With the eyes of love Aunt Susan saw that four years in a position of
authority had ripened her darling, and made of her a woman of wit and
judgment, who could tell a necessary thing in a right manner or with a
reserve which was commendable. Eagerly she studied her to see what the
changes of those formative years had brought her. She listened to
Elizabeth's plans for going to Topeka, and rejoiced that the intellectual
stimulus was still strong in her. Elizabeth was obliged to explain away
her parent's attitude regarding further education, and left much for the
older woman to fill in by her intuitions and experience of the world, but
there again Susan Hornby saw evidences of strength which made her feel
that the loss was offset by power gained. Elizabeth Farnshaw had matured
and had qualities which would command recognition. John Hunter had shown
that he recognized them--a thing which Elizabeth without egotism also
knew.

It was a new experience to go to sleep thinking of any man but Hugh. In
the darkness of the little bedroom in which Elizabeth slept that night
Hugh's priority was met face to face by John Hunter's proximity.
Possession is said to be nine points in the law, and John Hunter was on
the ground. The girl had been shut away from those of her kind until her
hungry hands in that hour of thought, reached out to the living presence
of the cultured man, and her hungry heart prayed to heaven that she might
not be altogether unpleasing to him.

In the hour spent with John Hunter she had learned that he had come to
Kansas to open a farm on the only unmortgaged piece of property which his
father had left him when he died; that his mother intended to come to him
as soon as he had a house built; and by an accidental remark she had also
learned that there were lots in some eastern town upon which enough money
could be raised to stock the farm with calves and that it was the young
man's intention to farm this land himself. It seemed so incredible that
John Hunter should become a farmer that by her astonished exclamation over
it she had left him self-satisfied at her estimate of his foreignness to
the life he was driven to pursue.

Elizabeth saw that if John Hunter must needs run a farm that he would do
his best at it, but that he did not wish to _appear_ one with a rôle, and
being young and with her own philosophy of life in a very much muddled
condition, she liked him the better for it. Crucified daily by the
incongruities of her own home, she craved deliverance from it and all it
represented.

Just now Elizabeth Farnshaw was going home with something akin to fear in
her heart. She rated herself soundly for the useless advice she had thrust
upon her mother and for the entangling difficulties which her thoughtless
words had produced. That the union of her parents was unclean, that it was
altogether foul and by far worse than a divorce, she still felt confident,
but she saw that her mother was totally unable to comprehend the
difference between a clean separate life and the nagging poison dealt out
as daily bread to the husband with whom she lived; but she saw that
because of that very inability to understand the difference, the mother
must be left to find the light in her own way. In her desire to help,
Elizabeth had but increased her mother's burdens, and she tried to assume
an attitude of added tenderness toward her in her own mind, and puckered
her young face into a frown as she let Patsie limp slowly from one low
hill to another.

"I'll do everything I can to square the deal for ma," she resolved, but in
her heart there was a sick suspicion that all she could do was not much,
and that it had small chance really to avail.

Elizabeth had started early for home, but the sun rode high in the heavens
before she arrived. Albert, who was herding the cattle on the short grass
a half mile from home, warned her as she passed that she would do well to
hurry to the house.

"Pa waited for you to do the milking, Bess, an' you didn't come. He's mad
as a hornet, an' You'll have t' bring th' cows out after he gets
through."

It was a friendly warning. To be milking at that hour, when all the men in
the neighbourhood were already following plow and harrow, was an important
matter on the farm. Plainly it had been arranged to make Elizabeth feel a
hindrance to the business of getting in the crops, and it was with
increased apprehension that she approached home.

The storm broke as soon as she was within hailing distance.

"It's time you brought that horse home, young lady. You see to it that
it's harnessed for th' drag as quick as ever you can. Next time you get a
horse You'll know it."

When Elizabeth started on and Mr. Farnshaw saw that Patsie was lame his
anger knew no bounds, and the sound of his exasperated voice could have
been heard half a mile away as he poured out a stream of vituperation.

Elizabeth dodged into the barn as soon as its friendly door could be
reached, thankful that the cows were as far as they were from it. Joe was
harnessing a team in the far corner.

"You better shy around pa, Sis; and get t' th' house," he cautioned.

"All right. He told me to harness Patsie, but she's so lame I know she
can't work--what will I do?"

"If she can't work, she can't. How did it happen?"

"She strained herself just before I got to Mr. Chamberlain's. I was
passing a young man by the name of Hunter and she fell flat. Say, do you
know anything about Mr. Hunter?"

"Yes, yes. Jimmie Crane says he's a stuck-up, who's goin' t' show us
country jakes how t' farm; but th' best thing you can do is t' get in an'
not let pa get any excuse for a row."

Mr. Farnshaw had taken the milkpails to the house while they were talking
and it was Elizabeth's fate to encounter him on the doorstep as she ran up
to the kitchen door.

"Where were you last night?"

"I'm awfully sorry about the horse, pa. I hurried this morning, but Patsie
was so lame and I had to come all the way from the Chamberlain district.
The Haddon school board didn't meet this week and the director of number
Twelve was away, and it was so late last night that I couldn't get home."

"Oh, you've always got a good excuse. I bet you didn't get a school after
all."

Elizabeth had been edging toward the door as her father was speaking and
now made her escape to the inside of the house as she replied over her
shoulder in a perfectly respectful tone:

"Oh, yes, I did, and it begins Monday."

"Well, it's better than I expected. Now see to it that you get that riding
skirt off an' come an' drive my team while I finish them oats."

The daughter stopped where she stood and was going to reply that she must
get ready if she were to go to Aunt Susan's the next day, but on second
thought closed her mouth down firmly. She knew she would do well if she
escaped with no harder tax laid upon her temper than that of putting off
her arrival at the Hornby home, and she turned to do as she was bidden.

When Elizabeth found her homecoming unpleasant and her father sullen and
evidently nursing his wrath, she faced the storm without protest, took all
that was said quietly, helped in the fields and endeavoured to make up for
her unfortunate words in every helpful way possible. In all, she was so
subtly generous with her assistance that it was impossible to bring on a
quarrel with her, and the sour demeanour of her father was so carefully
handled that Friday arrived without an open break having occurred. A new
dress had been one of the longed-for accomplishments of the week's work,
but certain of Aunt Susan's help when she was safely entrenched in her
home, Elizabeth retired to the attic whenever she saw her father approach
the house. His attitude was threatening, but the anxious girl was able to
delay the encounter. It could only be _delayed_, for Mr. Farnshaw made a
virtue of not forgetting unpleasant things.

The only unfortunate occurrence of the week was the presence of Sadie
Crane and her mother when Mr. Hunter drove up to the back door for
Elizabeth's trunk, but even this had had its beneficial side, for Josiah
Farnshaw had been mending harness, because a shower had made the ground
too wet to plow, and the presence of neighbours made it possible to get
the trunk packed without unpleasantness. When John Hunter drove up to the
back door, Mr. Farnshaw rose from his chair beside the window and went to
help put his daughter's possessions in the wagon. Sadie crossed over to
the window to get a look at Lizzie's new beau.

Sadie Crane was now sixteen years old, and being undersized and childish
of appearance had never had the pleasure of the company of a young man.
The yearning in her pettish face as she stood unevenly on the discarded
harness, looking out of the window toward John Hunter, caught Elizabeth's
attention and illuminated the whole affair to the older girl.

"Dude!" Sadie exclaimed spitefully, facing about and evidently offering
insult.

But Elizabeth Farnshaw had seen the unsatisfied look which preceded the
remark and it was excused. Sadie was just Sadie, and not to be taken
seriously.

"He'd better soak his head; he can't farm."

No one replied, and Elizabeth said hurried good-byes and escaped.

But though Sadie Crane was undersized and spoke scornfully, she was old
enough to feel a woman's desires and dream a woman's dreams. She watched
the pair drive away together in pleasant converse on the quilt-lined
spring seat of the farm wagon, and swallowed a sob.

"Lizzie always had th' best of everything," she reflected.

The roads were slippery and gave an excuse for driving slowly, and the
young man exerted himself to be agreeable. The distaste for the presence
of the Cranes at her home when he came for her, his possible opinion of
her family and friends, the prolonged struggle with her father, even the
headache from which she had not been free for days, melted out of
Elizabeth's mind in the joy of that ride, and left it a perfect
experience. It began to rain before they were halfway to their
destination, and they sat shoulder to shoulder under the umbrella, with
one of the quilts drawn around both. There was a sack of butterscotch, and
they talked of Scott, and Dickens, and the other books Elizabeth Farnshaw
had absorbed from Aunt Susan's old-fashioned library; and Elizabeth was
surprised to find that she had read almost as much as this college man,
and still more surprised to find that she remembered a great deal more of
what she had read than he seemed to do. She asked many questions about his
college experiences and learned that he had lacked but a year and a half
of graduation.

"Why didn't you finish?" she asked curiously.

"Well, you know, father died, and I didn't have hardly enough to finish
on, so I thought I'd come out here and get to making something. I didn't
care to finish. I'd had my fun out of it. I wish I hadn't gone at all. If
I'd gone into the office with my father and been admitted to the Bar it
would have been better for me. I wouldn't have been on the farm then," he
said regretfully.

"Then why didn't you go into the law? You could have made it by yourself,"
Elizabeth said, understanding that it hurt John Hunter's pride to farm.

The young man shrugged his dripping shoulders and pulled the quilt tighter
around them as he answered indifferently:

"Not very well. Father left very little unmortgaged except mother's own
property, and I thought I'd get out of Canton. It ain't easy to live
around folks you know unless you have money."

"But you could have worked your way through college; lots of boys do it,"
the girl objected.

"Not on your life!" John Hunter exclaimed emphatically. "I don't go to
college that way." After a few moments' musing he added slowly, "I'll make
money enough to get out of here after a while."

"I only wish I'd had your chance," Elizabeth said with a sigh.

"Let's talk about something cheerful," young Hunter replied, when he
realized that the ride was nearly over. "When may I come to see you
again?" he asked. "You are to see a good deal of me this summer if you
will permit it."

Elizabeth Farnshaw caught a happy breath before she replied. He wanted to
come; she was to see much of him this summer if she would permit it! Could
nature and fate ask for more?

When Elizabeth arrived, the old couple bustled about the bright carpeted
room, making it comfortable, and cooing over the return of their prodigal,
till a heaven of homeness was made of her advent.

Half an hour later Elizabeth, dry and warm and with a cup of tea beside
her which she had found it easier to accept than to refuse, looked about
her and invoiced the changes of four years which in her preoccupied state
of mind during her former visit she had neglected to think upon. There
were many little changes in the household arrangement, due to the
observations of the winter spent in Topeka. In personal appearance Aunt
Susan herself showed improvement.

When Elizabeth's attention was turned to Nathan, however, the glad little
enumeration became a more sober one. In the days when they had fed the
motherless Patsie together Nathan Hornby had been portly, even inclined to
stoutness, and his face, though tough from wind and sun, inclined to be
ruddy. The genial gray eyes had sparkled with confidence in himself and
good-will toward all about him. At Silas Chamberlain's house a week ago
the girl had noticed that Nathan let others arrange the business details
of contracts and credentials, but his joy at meeting her had obscured the
habitual sadness of his present manner. She had noticed that he was
thinner, but to-night she saw the waste and aging which had consumed him.
The belt line which had bulged comfortably under the vest of five years
ago was flat and flabby, the thick brown hair which had shown scarcely a
thread of white was now grizzled and thin, the ruddy cheeks had fallen in,
and two missing lower teeth made him whistle his s'es through the gap with
a sound unlike his bluff speech of their first acquaintance, so that
without the face which accompanied the words she could hardly have
recognized the connection between the man who had and the man who did
embody the same personality. The cogitations of the first half hour in the
white counterpaned bed that night left Elizabeth in a maze of wonder over
his physical as well as mental collapse.

Aunt Susan was evidently aware of changes also, for she hovered over him
solicitously. Nathan Hornby was a broken man.

School opened auspiciously on Monday; John Hunter came and stayed to walk
home with Elizabeth on Tuesday afternoon, and the glad weeks which
followed were but the happy record of so many rides, walks, and talks, and
the dreams of Elizabeth Farnshaw and John Hunter. He was with the girl
daily. Elizabeth never expressed the smallest desire for anything human
hand could obtain for her that John Hunter did not instantly assure her
that she should receive it. If she stayed to sweep out the schoolhouse,
John would almost certainly appear at the door before she had
finished--his fields commanded a view of her comings and goings--if she
went to Carter's to have a money order cashed he accompanied her; if she
wished to go anywhere she had but to mention it and John Hunter and his
team were at her service.

Elizabeth could not have been otherwise than happy. The spring, with its
freshness and promise, was symbolical of the gladsome currents of her life
that joyous April and May. Her lightest wish was the instant consideration
of the man she admired above all others, and that man, in refinement of
appearance and knowledge of the world, was as far above those of the
country community in which they lived as the sun was above the smoky
kerosene lamps by which the members of that community lighted themselves
to bed.

John Hunter, during the season of his courtship, served the girl of his
choice almost upon his knees. He made her feel that she could command his
services, his time, and himself. By his request he ceased to ask when he
could come again, but encouraged, even commanded, her to tell him when and
where she wished to be taken and to let him come to see her unannounced.
He paid tribute to her as if she had been a goddess and he her devotee.

Silas looked on and chuckled.

"Didn't take 'em long," he remarked to Liza Ann, and when as usual his
wife did not reply, he added: "Glad we're to have 'em for neighbours.
She's about th' liveliest meadow lark on these prairies, an' if she don't
sing on a fence post it's 'cause she ain't built that way, an' can't;
she's full enough to."

Susan Hornby looked on and had her misgivings. She saw the devotion the
young man poured out at her darling's feet, and she knew that it was the
fervour of the courting time in a man's life that made him abandon his own
interests and plans while he plumed himself and pursued his desired mate.
She saw the rapturous, dreamy look of love and mating time in Elizabeth's
eyes, and she knew that the inevitable had happened, but she was not
content. Premonitions which she sought to strangle shook her whenever the
pair wandered away on real or fictitious errands. She saw that no word of
love had yet been spoken, but every look cried it aloud and the day could
not be far distant.

Between corn planting and corn plowing the foundations of the new house
had been laid and work on it had progressed fitfully and whenever the
young man could find time to help the occasional mason who laid brick and
stone for simple foundations, and who had crops of his own to tend between
times. The work had progressed slowly, but at last the wall had been
finished and the carpenters had come to do their share. It gave excuse for
many trips in the evening twilight. They usually went on horseback, and
Silas's pony with Liza Ann's sidesaddle on its back had more business on
hand that month than in all the other years of its lazy existence.

Susan Hornby watched the pair ride away one evening the first week in
June. Nathan stood at her side on the doorstep.

"Of course he loves her; how could he help it? and yet----"

"And yet, what?" Nathan asked impatiently. "She wants him, an' he wants
her, an' you stand there lookin' as if that wasn't enough."

Susan Hornby turned to her husband with some uncertainty regarding his
comprehension of the subject, and with a gentle patience with his mood.
Nathan was often impatient of late.

"Yes, I know--only it seems as if----"

"Well, now what's lacking?" her husband asked when she again broke off the
sentence doubtfully. "He's got a good farm, an' he needs a wife to help
him run it. From what he says, his mother's too old t' be of any help. He
can't run it alone, an' seems t' me it's a good thing for both of 'em."

"That's just it!" Susan Hornby broke out, turning back, her eyes following
the progress of the pair toward the crimson west, her thoughts running
ahead to the unknown future where the progress of the soul would be helped
or hindered; "that's just it! He has a farm; now he's going to need a wife
to help run it--just as he needs a horse. If he'd only be fair about it,
but he's misleading her. She thinks he'll always do things the way he's
doing them now, and he won't; there'll be an end to that kind of thing
some day--and--and when they're married and he's got her fast, that kind
of man won't be nice about it--and--they'll live on the farm--and life's
so hard sometimes! Oh! I can't bear to see her broken to it!" she cried
with such intensity that the man at her side caught his breath with a sort
of sob.

"Anybody'd think to hear you talk, Susan, that marryin' was a thing to be
feared, an' that I'd been mean t' you."

What had she done? There was a half-frightened pause as Susan Hornby
struggled to bring herself back to the husband standing beside her who was
broken by failure.

"Bless your old soul, Nate," she answered quickly, and with the flush of
confusion on her face strangely like the flush of guilt, "if he's only
half as good to her as you've been to me, She'll never have anything to
complain of nor need anybody's sympathy."

Susan understood that her assurance did not wholly reassure that bleeding
heart, and to turn Nathan's thoughts to other things she slipped one hand
through his arm, and picking up the milk pails from the bench at her side
with the other, said with a little laugh:

"There now! I'll do your milking for that. You throw down the hay while I
do it. There's nothing the matter with you and me, except that I've done a
washing to-day and you don't sleep well of late. I haven't one thing in
all this world to complain of, and this would be the happiest year of my
life if you weren't a bit gloomy and under the weather. Come on--I'm
nervous. You know I never am well in hot weather."

Nathan knew that Susan was really worried over Elizabeth's prospects, but
her luckless remark upon the marriage of farmers cut into his raw,
quivering consciousness of personal failure like a saw-bladed knife,
torturing the flesh as it went. His failure to place her where her own
natural characteristics and attainments deserved had eaten into his mind
like acid. In proportion as he loved her and acknowledged her worth he was
humiliated by the fact that she was not getting all out of life of which
she was capable, as his wife, and it left him sensitive regarding her
possible estimate of it.

"She always seems satisfied," he said to himself as he turned his
pitchfork to get a hold on the pile into which he had thrust it, "but here
she is pityin' this here girl that's goin' t' be married as if she goin'
t' be damned."

The Adam's apple in his wrinkled throat tightened threateningly, and to
keep down any unmanly weakness it indicated he fell upon the hay savagely,
but the suspicion stayed with him and left its bitter sting.

CHAPTER VI

"DIDN'T TAKE 'EM LONG"

John Hunter and Elizabeth Farnshaw rode away in the cool summer evening,
wholly unconscious of the thoughts of others. The sun had dropped behind
the low hills in front of them, and as they rode along, the light-floating
clouds were dyed blazing tints of red and gold, as glowing and rosy as
life itself appeared to the young pair. Elizabeth took off her hat and let
the cool evening breeze blow through the waves of hair on her temples and
about the smooth braids which, because of the heat of the prematurely hot
summer day, had been wound about her head. Her eyes were dreamy and her
manner detached as she let the pony wander a half length ahead of its
companion, and she was unaware that John was not talking. She was just
drinking in the freshness of the evening breeze and sky, scarcely
conscious of any of her surroundings, glad as a kitten to be alive, and as
unaware of self as a young animal should be.

John Hunter rode at her side, watching the soft curls on her round girlish
neck, athrob and athrill with her presence, and trying to formulate the
thing he had brought her out to say. It was not till they were turning
into the lane beside the new house that his companion realized that he had
been more than usually quiet.

"You are a Quaker to-night, evidently, and do not speak till the spirit
moves, Mr. Hunter," she said, facing about near the gateway and waiting
for him to ride alongside.

The young man caught the cue. "I wish you would call me John. I've been
intending to ask you for some time. I have a given name," he added.

"Will you do the same?" she asked.

"Call myself John?" he replied.

They both laughed as if a great witticism had been perpetrated.

"No, call me by my given name."

"Lizzie, Bess, Elizabeth, or Sis?" he asked, remembering the various
nicknames of her family.

"You may call me whatever you choose," she answered, drawing the pony up
where they were to dismount.

John Hunter stepped to the ground and with his bridle rein over his arm
came around to the left side of her pony. Laying one hand on its neck and
the other on the hand that grasped its bridle, he looked up into her face
earnestly and said:

"I would like to call you 'Wife,' if I may, Elizabeth," and held up his
arms quickly to help her from the saddle.

When she was on the ground before him he barred her way and stood, pulsing
and insistent, waiting for her answer.

It was a full minute before either moved, she looking down at their feet,
he looking at her and trying to be sure he could push his claims.

When Elizabeth did look up it was with her eyes brimming shyly over with
happy tears, and without waiting for her answer in words, John Hunter
gathered her into his arms and smothered her face in kisses.

Ten minutes later they tied the horses to the new hitching post and passed
into the yard.

"It is to be your house and mine, dearie," the young man said, and then
looked down at her to see why she did not answer.

Elizabeth was walking toward the house which was to be hers, oblivious of
time and place, almost unconscious of the man at her side, stunned by the
unexpectedness of this precious gift of love which had just been offered
her. As they stepped upon the little back porch, he said:

"I brought you over to ask your advice about the stairway; the carpenters
want to leave one step in the sitting room. It'll be back far enough from
the chimney to be out of the way and it makes their calculations easier
about the stairs somehow. What do you think?"

Elizabeth was altogether too new in the sense of possession to grasp the
full significance of the question. John Hunter laughed at the look she
turned upon him and said, with a large and benevolent wave of the hand,
indicating the entire premises:

"The house is yours, little girl, and you are to have it as you want it.
The only desire I have on earth is to do things for you."

Elizabeth shot a quick look of joy up to him. "No one but Aunt Susan has
ever wanted to do anything for me," she said, and opening her arms held
them out to him, crying, "Am I to be happy? John! John! do you love me,
really?"

And that was the burden of their conversation during the entire stay.

"It can't be possible, John," the happy girl said at one point. "I have
never known love--and--and I want it till I could die for it."

"Just so you don't die _of_ it, You'll be all right," John Hunter replied,
and went home from Nathan's, later, whistling a merry tune. He had not
known that love poured itself out with such abandonment. It was a new
feature of the little god's manoeuvring, but John doubted not that it was
the usual thing where a girl really cared for a man.

"I'll farm the whole place next year, and It'll be different from boarding
at the Chamberlains', where they don't have any napkins and the old man
sucks his coffee out of his saucer as if it hurt him. Mother 'll like her
too, after we get her away from that sort of thing and brush her up, and
get her into the Hunter ways," he told himself as he tied the pony in the
dark stall.

The next day was a dream to the young girl, who patiently watched the
clock and waited for the hour of visiting the new house again. "I have no
higher desire on earth than to do things for you," was the undercurrent of
her thoughts. She was to escape from the things which threatened at home.
Instead of always rendering services, which were seldom satisfactory after
she had sacrificed herself to them, she was to be served as well. Oh, the
glad thought! Not of service as such, but of the mutuality of it. She
loved John Hunter and he loved her. There was to be understanding between
them. That was the joy of it. To put her hand on the arm of one that
appreciated not only her but all that she aimed at, to open her heart to
him, to be one with him in aspiration, that was the point of value which
Elizabeth Farnshaw never doubted was to be the leading characteristic of
their life together.

Now that she was engaged, Elizabeth felt herself emancipated from home
authority. She would belong to herself hereafter. She would stay with Aunt
Susan till she had her sewing done for the winter at Topeka. She would go
to school only one year, just enough to polish up on social ideas and
matters of dress. Elizabeth Farnshaw knew that both John Hunter and his
mother were critical upon those accomplishments and her pride told her to
prepare for the mother's inspection. She knew that she was considered a
country girl by those of superior advantages, and she was resolved to show
what could be done in a year in the way of improvement; then she would
come home and teach for money with which to buy her wedding outfit, and
then they would be married. Two years and the certainty of graduation
would have suited her better, but two years was a long time. The picture
of John without her, and the home he was building for her, planted
themselves in the foreground of her thoughts, and Elizabeth was unselfish.
She would not make John Hunter wait. She would make that one year at
Topeka equal to two in the intensity of its living. She would remain away
the shortest possible length of time which was required for her
preparation. Elizabeth was glad that John had his mother to keep house for
him, because she did not want him to be lonesome while she was gone,
though she did not doubt that he would come to Topeka many times while she
was there. Her mind flew off in another direction at that, and she planned
to send him word when there were good lectures to attend.

"John likes those things," she thought, and was filled with a new joy at
the prospect of their books, and lectures, and intellectual pursuits. Her
plan of teaching in the high school was abandoned. It was better to be
loved and have a home with John Hunter than to live in Topeka. The more
Elizabeth thought of it the more she was convinced that her plan was
complete. She was glad there was a month to spare before Mrs. Hunter came.
John's mother was the only warning finger on Elizabeth's horizon. She had
always been conscious of a note of anxiety in John Hunter's voice and
manner whenever he spoke of his mother coming to Kansas to live, and she
found the anxiety had been transferred to her own mind when she began to
consider her advent into the home John was building. She had gathered,
more from his manner than anything definitely said, that his mother would
not approve of much that she would be obliged to meet in the society about
them, that she was a social arbiter in a class of women superior to these
simple farmers' wives, and that her whole life and thought were of a
different and more desirable sort. When Elizabeth thought of Mrs. Hunter
she unconsciously glanced down at herself, her simple print dress, her
brown hands, and the heavy shoes which much walking made necessary, and
wondered how she did really appear; and there was a distinct misgiving in
everything where the older woman had to be considered.

John came early that evening. The carpenters had raised new questions
about shelves and doors and Elizabeth must go over and decide those
matters. They walked over, and it was late before all the simple
arrangements could be decided upon. As they returned they walked close
together in the centre of the deep road so as to avoid the dew-laden grass
on either side. The open door of Nathan's house gave out a hospitable
light, but they were content to saunter slowly, listening to the harvest
crickets which were already chirruping in the weeds about them, and
looking at the lazy red disk of the moon just peeping above the eastern
horizon.

"I shall write mother of our engagement to-night," John said after a
rather long silence.

"Oh, don't," the girl replied, awakened suddenly from a reverie of a
different sort. "Let's keep it a secret for a while. I haven't told Aunt
Susan yet, and I don't want to tell her till I go to Topeka. Of course
I'll have to explain if you come down there to see me."

"To Topeka?" John exclaimed in astonishment.

Elizabeth laughed merrily. "Why, yes," she said. "Isn't it like me to
think you knew all about that? I'm going to Topeka to school this
winter--and--and I hope You'll come a lot. We'll have awfully good times.
Then I'll teach another term and get my wedding clothes and get them made,
and then, John Hunter, I am yours to have and to hold," she ended
happily.

"You don't mean that you are going to school again now that you are going
to get married?" John Hunter asked with such incredulity that Elizabeth
laughed a little joyous laugh full of girlish amusement, full of love and
anticipation.

"Why of course--why not? All the more because we are going to be married.
I'll want to brush up on lots of things before I have to live near your
mother; and--and we'll have awfully good times when you come to see me."

"Oh, goodness!" John said irritably. "I'd counted on being married this
fall. I simply can't wait two years, and that is all there is about it."
Elizabeth argued easily at first, certain that it could be readily
arranged, but John became more and more positive. At last she became
worried.

The harvest crickets were forgotten as the young girl pressed closer to
his side, explaining the necessity, pointing out that it was to be her
last little fling at the education for which she had planned so long, her
timidity where his mother was concerned, and her desire to enter the
family upon equal social terms.

"It is all tomfoolery," John answered with fixity of purpose. "You don't
need a thing that you haven't already got--except," he added slowly,
"except what mother could help you to. But that isn't the point. I shall
need you. It's time for me to get down to business and raise some money.
Between building the house and going"--John hesitated--"and not applying
myself as I should, I'm not making anything this summer. I want to get
away from this--from here--some day, and I want to begin real work at
once. Mother can help you in anything you don't know; she's up on all
those things; and we've got to get down to business," he repeated.

There was a tone of finality in it. Elizabeth recognized it, but her plans
were made and she was not ready to give them up.

"I can't go into your house, John, I simply cannot, without getting away
and learning some things. When I become your wife I want to be a woman you
are proud to take to your mother. I can't have it otherwise."

There was quiet while she waited for the answer to her assertion.
Elizabeth thought he was formulating a reply. The silence lengthened, and
still she waited. They were getting nearer the house and she moved more
slowly, drawing on his arm to check his advance. At last, realizing that
he did not intend to speak when they were just outside of the lighted
doorstep, Elizabeth stopped and, facing around so that she could see him
in the dim light, asked:

"What is it? What have I done to offend you?"

"Nothing, only it upsets every plan I have on earth. I tell you, it's all
foolishness; and besides, I need you. Now see here"--and he went on to
show her how his mother knew all the things she was going to Topeka to
learn, and to outline his schemes for the future.

Confused by his opposition, and not knowing just how to meet this first
difference of opinion, Elizabeth listened and made no reply. It was her
way to wait when disturbed until she saw her way clear. Elizabeth was
sound and sturdy but not quick and resourceful when attacked. John talked
on till he had finished his argument and then turned to the house again.
When they arrived at the step he said a whispered good-bye and was gone
before Elizabeth realized that he was not coming in with her.

Susan Hornby had risen from her chair, thinking that John was coming into
the house, and when she saw that he did not she slipped her arm about the
young girl and kissed her as she was passing.

"I'm going to bed, Aunt Susan," Elizabeth said, and passed on to the door
of her own room. Susan Hornby knew that something had gone wrong.

Saturday morning was spent by Elizabeth sewing on a dress she was anxious
to finish before Mrs. Hunter came, and when there were only mornings and
evenings in which to sew, and inexperience made much ripping necessary,
the work did not progress rapidly. As she sewed she considered. No, she
would not give up the year away at school. It was absolutely essential
that she come into the Hunter family equipped and ready to assume the rôle
which a wife should play in it. She would be married without a whole new
outfit of clothes, but the year at school was a necessity. Elizabeth's
pride revolted against being taught social customs by John Hunter's
mother. As she thought of the year he must spend alone, however, she was
quite willing to give up teaching an extra year for the sake of the usual
bridal finery. She resolved to tell him that. She would be married in the
simplest thing she had if he wished.

Fate in the person of John Hunter himself took the settlement of the
bride's gown out of Elizabeth's hands. Just before noon he stopped, on his
way back from Colebyville, to give Susan Hornby the mail he had brought
out from the post-office. Elizabeth followed him to the wagon when he went
out.

"Well, I wrote mother. Can you be ready by October?" He spoke across the
backs of the horses as he untied them, and was very busy with the straps.

Elizabeth Farnshaw's face contracted visibly. He had taken advantage of
her.

"How could you do it?" she asked indignantly.

"Why, I thought it was settled! I told you I couldn't wait a whole year,
much less two. I told you about getting Mitchell County land and getting
down to cattle raising right off. You didn't say anything."

There was such righteous innocence in his voice that the sting of
deception was drawn from her mind. The young girl made no reply, but
leaned her head against the withers of the horse at her side and looked
down at her foot to hide her tears. It was a blow. She was conscious that
somehow there had been a lack of high principle in it. Her silence the
night before _had_ given some colour to the claim of it having been
settled, but there had been a haste about this letter which was
suspicious. Why could he not have stopped on the way to town as well as
now on the way home?

The question which was forming in Elizabeth's mind was cut short by
feeling John's arm stealing around her. She started and glanced at the
house apprehensively.

"Oh, they can't see us," John said, glad to have that phase of the
situation up for argument. "It wouldn't matter if they did, since we are
to be married so soon." He added the last warily and watched to see its
effect upon her.

"But I didn't want it to be as soon as that," the girl objected
half-heartedly, making her usual mistake of laying the vital point of
difference away to be settled in her own mind before she discussed it.
Perhaps after all John had thought it was settled the night before; at any
rate she would not speak of her suspicion till sure on that point.

John Hunter noticed that she did not refuse outright to consent to the
early marriage and drew her complacently to him.

"I couldn't wait that long, sweet. I want you and I want you now."

He drew her close, in a firm, insistent grasp of his strong arm. Her
resistance began to melt.

"I love you," his voice said close to her ear. She felt his eyes seeking
hers. His was the position of advantage. Elizabeth loved love, and she had
never had it before. She had never been wanted for love's sake. She wished
to believe him. It came over her that she had wronged him by even the
thought of an advantage having been taken of her. John's arm was about
her, he was pleading his love. Why be unpleasant about it? It was only a
little thing. As she had said in her engagement hour, Elizabeth wanted
love till she could die for it. She gave up, though something in her held
back and was left hungry.

As John Hunter drove home to Liza Ann's waiting dinner he said to
himself:

"Gosh! but I'm glad I got that letter off. I knew I'd better do it this
morning or she'd be hanging back. It worked better than I had any reason
to expect. She's going to be easy to manage. Mother ain't able to cook for
hired men. She's never had it to do--and she don't have to begin. This
school business is all foolishness, anyhow."

Elizabeth did not stand as usual and watch her lover drive toward home.
Something in her wanted to run away, to cry out, to forget. She was torn
by some indefinable thing; her confidence had received a shock. She went
back to the house, but to sew was impossible now. She decided to go home,
to walk. The long stretches of country road would give time and isolation
in which to think. She announced her determination briefly as she passed
through the kitchen, oblivious of Aunt Susan's questioning eyes. Snatching
up the large sunbonnet which was supposed to protect her from the browning
effects of Kansas winds and sun, she told the older woman, who made no
effort to disguise her astonishment at the sudden change, to tell John to
come for her on the morrow, and set off toward the north.

Elizabeth knew that her father's temper made her homegoing an unsafe
procedure, but the tumult within her demanded that she get away from Susan
Hornby and think her own thoughts unobserved.

But though the walk gave her time to think, Elizabeth was no nearer a
decision when she sighted the Farnshaw cottonwoods than she had been when
she started out. The sun burned her shoulders where the calico dress was
thin, and she wiped her perspiring face as she stopped determinedly to
come to some conclusion before she should encounter her mother.

"I suppose I ought to give up to him," she said, watching a furry-legged
bumblebee as it moved about over the face of a yellow rosin weed flower by
the roadside. "I wouldn't care if it weren't for his mother. I'd like to
get some of these country ways worked out of me before I have to see too
much of her. She'll never feel the same toward me if she has to tell me
what to do and what not to do. If only he didn't want me so badly. If only
I could have one year away."

The new house pleaded for John Hunter, the content of a home, life with
the young man himself. Elizabeth had reasoned away her distrust of the
means by which her consent had been gained, but her heart clung to the
desire to appear well before Mrs. Hunter. Something warned her that she
must enter that house on an equal footing with the older woman.

"Well, he wants me, and I ought to be glad he is in a hurry. I'll do it. I
ought to have insisted last night if I meant to hold out, and not have let
him misunderstand me. If it weren't for his mother, I wouldn't care."

Having decided to accept the terms offered her, Elizabeth sat down in the
shade of a clump of weeds and pictured, as she rested, the home which was
to be hers. Compared to those of the farmers' wives about them, it was to
be sumptuous. She thought of its size, its arrangement, and the man who
was inviting her to share it with him, and a glad little thrill ran
through her. When Elizabeth began to sum up her blessings she began to be
ashamed of having suspected John Hunter of duplicity in writing the
letter.

"He told me he had no higher desires on earth than to do things for me,"
she said, springing up and starting home with a song in her heart.

Mrs. Farnshaw, called to the door by the barking of the dogs, exclaimed:

"What in this world brings you home at this time of day?" Mrs. Farnshaw's
hands were covered with the dough of her belated Saturday's baking.

"Just had to come, mummie; just had to come," Elizabeth cried, giving her
mother a rapturous little hug.

Mrs. Farnshaw ducked her head to avoid the manoeuvre, saying petulantly:

"Look out! Can't you see I'm in th' flour up t' my elbows."

Elizabeth flicked her dress sleeve and laughed in merry derision.

"Kansas flour brushes off easily, ma," she said, "and I've got something
to tell you."

The corners of Mrs. Farnshaw's mouth twitched in a pleased effort to cover
a smile.

Elizabeth was surprised at her own statement. She had not exactly intended
to tell her mother at this time and could not understand herself in having
put the idea forth, that she had come all the way home to tell something
of importance. She sat down and leaned her elbows on the littered kitchen
table too confused to speak for a moment. She had made the plunge; there
was no other excuse for the trip that she could think of at that time,
and, with a feeling that Aunt Susan had been defrauded of something
distinctly belonging to her, Elizabeth broke the silence with the bald
statement.

"Mr. Hunter and I are going to be married."

"Well, Lizzie, that ain't much news; we seen it comin' weeks ago," the
mother replied with a laugh.

"You did? I don't see how you knew," the girl said, startled out of her
confusion.

"What's he been comin' here so steady for?" Mrs. Farnshaw replied,
scraping the side of her bread pan with a kitchen knife, and ready to
enter into this delightful bit of argument. Lizzie was doing well for
herself.

"Lots of girls have steady company and don't get married either," the girl
replied hesitantly.

"Oh, yes, but this is different," the mother said. "When's it goin' t'
be?"

"Some time in October," Elizabeth said, her words dragging. She had
consented, but the mere mention of the time made her shrink.

"Is th' house done?" Mrs. Farnshaw asked, her mind, like her hands, filled
with practical concerns.

"Almost," Elizabeth returned as she rose to get the broom with which to
sweep the ever dusty floor. "It's ready to paint," she added.

"Is it goin' t' be painted? Will it be white and have green shutters?"

Elizabeth laughed at the gratified pride in her mother's tone.

"I don't know, ma," she said, looking for the shovel, which, when it could
be located, served as a dustpan.

"Didn't he ask you what colour to put on it?" the mother asked, fishing
the shovel out of the rubbish collected behind the rusty cook stove. "Now
look here, Lizzie," she added with sudden suspicion, "don't you go an'
spoil him right t' begin with. You let him see that you want things your
own way about th' house. If you set your foot down now, You'll have it
easier all th' way through. That's where I made my mistake. I liked t'
give up t' your pa at first an' then--an' then he got t' thinkin' I didn't
have no right t' want anything my way."

Mrs. Farnshaw filled the hungry stove with cobs and studied the subject
dejectedly.

"I don't get my way about nothin'. I can't go t' town t' pick out a new
dress that is bought with money I get from th' eggs, even. He'll manage
most any way t' get off t' town so's t' keep me from knowin' he's goin',
an' then make me send th' eggs an' butter by some one that's goin' by. He
makes me stay home t' watch something if he has t' let me know he's goin'
his self. I don't own my house, nor my children, nor myself."

The undercurrent of Elizabeth's thoughts as she listened to the spiritless
tale was, "but John's so different from pa."

"I reckon I'll never have no help from you now," Mrs. Farnshaw continued
in the same whine.

The girl crossed the room and put her arms tenderly around her mother's
neck.

"I'll live real near you, ma, and you can come and see me every few days.
Don't let's spoil these last few weeks by worrying," Elizabeth said, her
eyes opened to the longing expressed.

Mrs. Farnshaw was heating the oven for baking, and broke away from the
sympathetic clasp to refill the roaring stove.

"These cobs don't last a minute," she said, and then turned to Elizabeth
again. "You'll have th' nicest house in th' country. My! won't it make th'
Cranes jealous?"

"They don't count," Elizabeth answered. "I believe you think more of
John's house than you do of him."

"No, I don't, but I'm glad t' see you doin' so well for yourself."

As she finished speaking, Mr. Farnshaw came into the kitchen.

"Well, pa, how do you do?" Elizabeth said, turning toward him pleasantly.
She wanted to tell him of her engagement, now that she had told her
mother, and she wanted to be at peace with him.

Mr. Farnshaw mumbled a curt reply and, picking up the empty basket
standing beside the stove, went out of the house, slamming the door behind
him significantly.

"I wanted to tell him myself," Elizabeth said with a half-shamed look in
her mother's direction. "I'm glad all men aren't like that."

"Well, he remembers that awful thing you said about partin'----" Mrs.
Farnshaw began.

"But this isn't any new thing in him, ma. He's always been that way,"
Elizabeth objected, determined not to let her mother start on that subject
to-day.

"Oh, I know it! They all get that way if they're let; think they own
everything in sight. They get worse, too, as they get older. You do what I
said an' set your foot down about that house," her mother replied, and
turned to put a pan of bread in the oven.

CHAPTER VII

ERASING HER BLACKBOARD

John's attention centred about the new house and each day found him more
impatient to see it finished. The creature comforts of life were his main
ideals and he wanted to get settled. Sunday afternoon found him early at
Nathan's to consult with Elizabeth about the kitchen windows. Susan
Hornby's surprised recognition of his annoyance, when he was told that she
had gone home, added to the unpleasantness of the eight-mile drive. What
business had that woman studying him or his moods? he asked himself as he
drove away. He would not get out of the wagon when he reached Elizabeth's
home, though the sun was hot and Mrs. Farnshaw urged him to do so. He was
irritated, he did not know at what, but he was. He hurried Elizabeth away
without ceremony. As soon as they were beyond earshot he began to voice
his grievances. The point he discussed had nothing whatever to do with the
real ground for his irritability, but served as an outlet for his acrid
frame of mind.

"If you want to go anywhere, let me know it so that I can take you. I
can't have you running around the country in this fashion," he began.

Elizabeth, who had felt his manner, looked up in puzzled surprise. She
could see nothing in that to be fretted about. It was so good to see him,
to have him with her again after a night spent in her father's house, that
she was ready to concede any point her lover might raise, but this seemed
so trivial that she laughed a happy laugh as she answered caressingly:

"I have always walked whenever and wherever I chose around here. I like
it, dear."

"That don't make any difference; it ain't good for any woman to walk eight
miles at one time," John answered shortly.

Unable to see the reason for laying stress upon the danger in doing a
thing she had done for years without harm to herself, Elizabeth was
surprised into continuing the argument without at all caring whether she
ever walked again or not.

"I've walked that much a hundred times in my life, and I'll probably walk
it a hundred times more," she replied with a laugh.

"Not if you live with me," John Hunter announced, standing as solid as a
rock on the issue now that he had raised it.

"But why not?" the girl inquired, still but little concerned, and looking
her betrothed over with a girl's eye for correct combinations of collar,
tie, and driving gloves. Those gloves had been the chief objection
Elizabeth's brothers had been able to raise against the Eastern man, and
gave colour to the spiteful "dude" with which John Hunter was mentioned by
the envious.

"Why not?" John repeated after her. "Because it don't look well."

The ridiculous and inadequate reply drew the girl still deeper into the
discussion. She began to reason with him quite earnestly. She had always
walked a great deal; she loved it. Walking was jolly fun. Everybody knew
she was not as dependent upon being taken as the ordinary woman. When,
however, John would not give in and insisted that things were different
now that they were engaged, she ceased to say more.

"You see," he concluded, "people expect me to take you. They'll think
something's happened and that I don't want to. If I want to take my future
wife, she ought to be willing to be taken. I don't want you ever to walk
home again."

Elizabeth Farnshaw was young, the experiences of her night at home had
made her covet peace, she was unaware that she was being moulded, or that
her lover considered the Hunter ways, as such, especially desirable.
Willing to pay the price, rather enjoying the masterful way in which her
betrothed insisted upon serving her, reflecting that no one had ever been
willing to serve her at all, and feeling that it was a minor matter, she
gave up.

"All right! I like to walk, but if you look at it in that way I won't do
it again," she promised, and in the silence which followed stole a look
now and then at John Hunter, revelling in his well-groomed appearance. A
vision of her father's slatternly, one-suspendered shoulders, and
button-less sleeves flapping about his rough brown wrists, set against
this well-shirted gentleman produced sharp contrast and made of the future
a thing altogether desirable. The useless arguments between her parents
arose before her also; she resolved to argue less and love more. It was
something, she reflected, to know when to lay an argument down. Besides,
John wanted it. Leaning over, she rubbed her cheek softly against his
sleeve.

"I never thought I could be so happy." The words were whispered tenderly,
as she looked up into his face.

Could mortal man fail to appreciate the manner of the surrender? There was
nothing left to argue about; all had been granted. Elizabeth was learning,
as all women have had to do before her, that the man-creature loves to be
adored, that by cloaking her own desires, stroking his fur the right way,
giving it little pats of approval and admitting the pleasure conferred by
his presence, she could work a magic. John's arm dropped about her and she
gave herself up to the delights of being cuddled.

It was not possible for the inexperienced girl to measure the importance
of the freedom she had surrendered. Elizabeth desired to forget the
unpleasant things. Real issues were obscured for the girl by her desire to
escape from her father's house. In addition to that, Elizabeth had not yet
become analytical. Instead of meditating upon the manner or the
positiveness of her lover's commands, she took counsel with herself how to
make their lives different from her parents', and in her efforts to keep
her own attitude right forgot to see to it that there was a similar
attitude on the part of her future husband.

As they drove along with John's arm about her they ceased to talk, and
Elizabeth's thoughts drifted off to her affairs with her father and the
night just spent at home. Mr. Farnshaw had adopted the policy of
contemptuous silence toward her, and Elizabeth hoped devoutly that he
would continue in that frame of mind. Only so would she dare to spend at
home the weeks between the close of school and her marriage. She had
counted much upon spending those weeks with Aunt Susan, who daily became
dearer. She was not moved to tell Aunt Susan girlish secrets, but she was
understood and rightly valued in Susan Hornby's home; and now, during this
one of all the critical periods in her life the most important, Elizabeth
desired to be with her, but Mrs. Farnshaw demanded uncompromisingly that
her daughter come home at that time. There was no escaping Mrs. Farnshaw's
demands on her children, and, troubled and uncertain, Elizabeth pondered
and snuggled closer to the man who was to deliver her from them.

The pair drove to the new house before going to the Hornbys' for the rest
of the day. John ceased to be fretful, and by the time for leaving had
arrived, Elizabeth had forgotten that he had ever been so. That evening
Aunt Susan was told of the engagement, and having divined its arrival, she
was able to hide any misgivings she had about it. Besides, not having
anything upon which to fasten her objections to John Hunter, she was wise
enough to know that love must have its way, and when Elizabeth pictured
the life that awaited her, her lover's good points, and her satisfaction
rang out in a song of glad notes with no hint of apprehension, the older
woman tried to enter into the spirit of the hour.

Elizabeth was certain she could meet John Hunter's moods as the occasion
required. No doubts assailed her about the future life except where John's
mother was concerned. When Elizabeth got to that point in her reflections
she stopped short without speaking of the matter and announced her
intention of going to bed. Elizabeth Farnshaw loved John Hunter devotedly,
but his mother was another matter. There was a strong undercurrent of
anxiety whenever Mrs. Hunter had to be considered. The nearer the time
came for her arrival, the more the girl dreaded meeting her. Elizabeth was
loyal to John, however, and Susan Hornby was given no hint of that dread.

Mrs. Hunter came west the last week of school, and when John was so busy
getting her and her household goods settled that Elizabeth did not see him
the entire week, it was like a stab to the sensitive girl. Filled with a
natural sense of good-byes to all that she had known and loved in the
work, the impending changes in her life took on a troubled air when John
failed to come as usual and did not account for the delay. By some
psychological process Susan Hornby's misgivings began to be transferred to
Elizabeth's mind. Always as they sewed together Elizabeth was tempted to
talk about the subject, but something held her back. Often Susan Hornby,
who suspected her troubled state of mind, was moved to ask questions and
could not.

A week is a long time when anxiety governs the thoughts, and as Elizabeth
grew more lonely she crept into Aunt Susan's arms as well as into her
heart. It became her custom to creep up to the older woman after the lamps
were lighted and lay her head in her lap, while she would imprison one of
Aunt Susan's hands so as to be able to fondle it. The evidences of
affection became more and more a part of her thoughts now that the days
were slipping by without receiving those evidences from the one who had
educated her in them.

The last day of school arrived. John had told Elizabeth the week before
that he expected to take her and her trunk home, but not having seen him
nor had a word from him recently regarding the matter, a strange feeling
of disaster made the closing school exercises unreal and uninteresting.
After the children were gone, Elizabeth began the task of cleaning the
schoolroom and putting it in order. She set about the work slowly, making
it last as long as she could. School teaching had been pleasant work. It
had been the one free field of action life had ever granted her, the one
point where she had ever possessed herself and moved unquestioned. The
presence of John Hunter's mother in the community had made the teaching
seem a refuge to the young girl who was to live in the house with her.
Elizabeth had not understood that Mrs. Hunter was actually to live with
them till a short time before her arrival, and then had very nearly given
offence to her lover by an astonished exclamation of surprise. Perceiving
that she had done so she hastened to say that she would be very glad to
have his mother with them. As soon as Elizabeth had got away, and taken
time to think it out, she saw that she had lied. John also knew that it
was not exactly true, and was therefore more sensitive. It had been the
first point of real difference between them. There had been no discussion
of it. Elizabeth would have been glad to go to him and say that she wished
it, but she did not wish it and would not lie consciously. If it had to
be, she would make the best of it and make his mother as welcome as she
could, but with the instincts of all young things, the girl wanted to live
alone with her mate. The unnaturalness of having others thrust upon them
during that first year of married life jarred upon her, just as it has
jarred upon every bride who has been compelled to endure it since the
beginning of time. It made of the new home a workshop instead of a nest,
and took from the glamour of marriage. It made the girl cling to the
freedom of the country schoolhouse and fear the new life, where the
examples presented to her by those who had tried it were discouraging to
an observant onlooker. All this came up as she worked, and saddened the
day even more than before. As she put the broom away in the corner beside
the water pail, she noticed that the blackboard remained to be cleaned.
Taking an eraser she rubbed vigorously.

"It is a rat. Run, rat, run," begun as high as little arms could reach,
and straggling zigzagingly down toward the bottom, was the last to be
attacked. As her hand passed reluctantly over it she said aloud:

"I'm erasing my blackboard too. Pretty soon I won't be a girl any more.
Pretty soon----"

She checked herself, and putting away the eraser, packed the few
belongings in the drawer of the desk into a neat bundle to be carried
home. With the package under her arm and her little tin dinner pail
dangling from her wrist, Elizabeth fitted the key into the lock. As it
clicked under her fingers the thought came to her that she must turn it
over to the school board. The finality of it clutched her. Thrusting the
key back into the door, she was about to go into the little room again for
another look around, when Susan Hornby's voice at her elbow made her
start.

Aunt Susan saw the tears which had sprung into the young eyes at the
leave-taking and drew her down on the step.

"What is it?" she asked earnestly. "You ought to tell me if you are
worried."

The tears which had been gathering spilled themselves over cheek and
chin.

"Will I get like the rest of them, Aunt Susan?--never go anywhere, never
read anything, have nothing ahead but the same weary round over again
every day?" she queried, when she was able to command her voice.

Susan Hornby's face worked determinedly to control her own emotions for a
moment before she could speak.

Elizabeth continued: "I've been--I've been so happy this summer, Aunt
Susan, and--and I'm a little afraid of that other life. Don't think I
don't want to be married--I do," she felt bound to interpose. "It's
just--just that--well, you can see how it is; the married women around
here wear faded things, and--and their teeth get bad--and a man hardly
ever wants to take his wife anywhere. Look at Mrs. Carter, and Mrs. Crane,
and ma. Poor ma! She never gets to go anywhere she wants to."

The girlish questionings and fears broke down Susan Hornby's control and
she fell on Elizabeth's neck and sobbed openly as she said:

"I know, I know. I've thought of little else of late. My poor little ewe
lamb! My poor little ewe lamb!"

The ethics of Susan Hornby's generation did not permit of an outright
discussion of the marriage relation. She did not have the matter clear in
her own mind, but a sort of dull terror came over her whenever she thought
of Elizabeth becoming John Hunter's wife. She could hardly have told why.
She knew that somehow human beings missed the highest in the marriage
relation and that the undiscussed things of life had to do with the
failure; she knew also that her instincts regarding this marriage were
true, but she could sound no warning because her knowledge came from the
instincts and had no outward evidence of fact with which to support it. To
how large a degree did these warnings apply to all? Susan Hornby had
plenty of time to wonder and think, for Elizabeth cried softly to herself
without speaking further. The older woman's hand wandered over the glossy
braids in her lap, and her eyes wandered off toward the Carter homestead
while her mind struggled with the problems of the neighbourhood. Elizabeth
had put into words a thing she had herself observed. She saw the
irritability of men toward their wives; she saw women about them who
toiled earnestly, who bore children, and who denied themselves every sort
of pleasurable relation at the demand of husbands who never gave them a
look of comradery or good fellowship in return. Was it the weariness of
the struggle to live, or was it sex, or was it the evil domination of men?
This girl whose sunny hair she was caressing was to go under the merciless
hammer of the matrimonial auctioneer. What was to be her fate? Susan
Hornby saw that love had touched the highest in Elizabeth Farnshaw's
nature and that the girl yearned toward a high ideal of family life. She
had shown it in her girlish chatter as they had sewed together. Could she
attain to it? Susan Hornby thought of John Hunter and stiffened. She felt
that Elizabeth would yearn toward it all the days of her life with him and
never catch even a fleeting glimpse of it.

Elizabeth snuggled closer on the step and reached for the hand stroking
her head.

"It isn't the faded dresses, Aunt Susan; it's--it's the faded life I'm
afraid of," she whispered thickly.

Susan Hornby bent her head to catch the sobbing voice, and losing control
of her reserve, said abruptly: "I know it, I know all about it. If I
thought John Hunter'd let you set at home like----"

She knew while the words were still in her mouth that it was a mistake.
The girl shrank away and dropped the hand she had been fondling. There was
absolute silence for a moment, the older woman dumb, unable to go on,
unable to explain, unable to retract, or extricate herself in any way. The
discussion had promised so well at first that both had entered into it
with zest, and yet the moment it had become personal, loyalty had risen
between them and hushed their words and left them uncomfortable. The
silence became so intolerable that Elizabeth arose, and unable to look up
turned and fumbled with the lock on the schoolhouse door. Aunt Susan rose
also and waited, without speaking, for her to start home. Something hurt
on both sides. Neither blamed the other, but both were to look back to the
rough schoolhouse steps and the half-hearted discussion of man's
domination and woman's inability to defend herself against it.

Before supper was quite finished John came to take Elizabeth to meet his
mother. He was all bustle and activity; in fact, John Hunter was at his
best. He took possession of her in exactly the way to show how unnecessary
her fears had been. The reaction set in. John was fresh and clean of linen
and finger-nails and pleasing to the eye. Elizabeth's mood changed the
moment he presented himself on Nathan's doorstep. Every fear of the faded
life disappeared in his magical presence. John Hunter at least was not
faded. After all, Elizabeth had been a bit piqued and really wanted to
meet Mrs. Hunter. John whisked her off merrily and carried her to the home
which was to be theirs.

"Mother, this is Elizabeth Farnshaw, soon to be your daughter," was the
introduction he gave her when his mother met them at the door, and then
watched narrowly to see what sort of impression Elizabeth would make.

Mrs. Hunter kissed the girl gravely, and still retaining her hand stepped
back and looked at her curiously, but kindly.

"I am glad you are to be John's wife, dear," she said slowly. "I am sure
we shall like each other. We must--he is all I have, you know."

Elizabeth, who had felt herself on trial, was near tears, but her lover
saved her from that embarrassment when, feeling that the Hunter approval
was accorded, he stepped forward and put his arms about the two, kissing
first one and then the other.

"My mother and my wife-to-be must certainly like each other," he said.

They passed into the house, over which John and his mother conducted
Elizabeth, talking of its arrangement and furnishings. The girl had
supposed that she had a fairly definite idea of the appearance that house
would have, having overseen every feature of its building, but it was a
world of surprises she entered upon to-day. In her wildest dreams of what
they would do when they had become rich, as they had planned much to do,
this daughter of the Kansas prairies had never pictured such tasteful
home-making. Each bedroom had its bureau with bedstead to match, and the
one downstairs had ruffled pillow-shams.

"This is to be your own room," Mrs. Hunter whispered in Elizabeth's ear,
and the young girl stole a shy look at her lover, who was drumming on the
window and had not heard, and made no reply, but it gave her a sense of
possession in the new house which she had very nearly lost of late.

It was reserved for the new cook stove in the spotless kitchen to complete
the surprises of Elizabeth's new world. Elizabeth fingered the nickled
knobs, exclaimed over the reservoir for hot water at its back and the
warming closet below, and investigated all its secret places as if it had
been a toy. John Hunter gave his mother an approving nod behind the girl's
back, and the visit was a success. Elizabeth forgot that she was to share
the honours of the home with "Mother Hunter," as she had secretly called
her a few times, and in the end overstayed her time till the leave-taking
at Aunt Susan's had to be cut short, and they were late in arriving at her
father's house.

The day, which had had so many variations, however, like a piece of music,
was to return to the original theme before it closed. It had been a day of
forebodings and anxiety. Fate never permitted Elizabeth Farnshaw more than
a short snatch at happiness, and as John Hunter drove away after he had
helped her deposit her trunk in a dusty corner, the girl wanted to run
after him and implore him not to leave her at the mercy of the morrow.

As she gazed about the cheerless kitchen she noticed a muffled lump in the
middle of the table. The sponge for the Saturday's baking had been warmly
wrapped for the night. To-morrow would be bake day! Oh, joy! Elizabeth
resolved to insist upon kneading the dough the next morning, and before
starting up the ladder to the loft where she was to sleep she hunted
around in the kitchen safe for the cook book, wondering if by any chance
she could induce her mother to let her try her hand at baking a cake
also.

"Go to bed, in there!" growled a voice from the other room, and the girl
climbed to her pallet, on which dreams of cooking were to entertain her
waking as well as her sleeping hours.

Elizabeth's cooking schemes turned out rather better than she had
expected. There are some things common to all women, and Mrs. Farnshaw
entered into her daughter's desire to learn to cater to the appetite of
the man she was going to marry. She worked with the girl at the home-made
kitchen table, and as they worked she talked of many things which to her
mind were essential to preparations for marriage, of the dresses to be
made, of the new house, which was Mrs. Farnshaw's pride, and of John
Hunter himself. By some unlucky chance Elizabeth mentioned her father's
name. Mrs. Farnshaw had been waiting for an opportunity to speak of the
misunderstanding between her husband and their daughter. It is the
tendency of the weak to waste much time and energy in reconciliations, and
to Mrs. Farnshaw peace meant far more than principles. She gave little
thought to the rightness of her husband's demands, but bent every faculty
toward coaxing her family to accede to them. If he were angry, all must
move in cautious attempt to placate his temper, and if his feelings were
hurt no principle must be permitted to stand in the way of excuse and
explanation. She was rejoiced when Elizabeth mentioned her father's name
and forced upon her at once the necessity of asking pardon for the
luckless remark regarding separation which Mr. Farnshaw had overheard
three months before.

"But it isn't a particle of use, ma," Elizabeth replied when pushed to the
point of answering. "You know he'll hate me now, no matter what I ever do.
I've only got along peaceably this far by not talking to him of anything
at all. It's his way. Let it alone. I'm sorry I ever said it, but it can't
be helped."

"Yes, it can," Mrs. Farnshaw persisted. "Anyhow, he's your pa,
an'--an'--an' you owe it t' him. You owe it t' me too, t' make it right.
I'll never have a day of peace with him again if you don't. You'd no
business t' talk of partin' nohow! 'Taint decent, an'--an' it give him th'
feelin' that I was sidin' in with such talk."

Mrs. Farnshaw had been shrewd enough to save her strongest point till the
last. That was the lever by which she could pry Elizabeth loose from her
seated conviction that nothing could be done. Those sentiments had been
_Elizabeth's_, not her mother's. Something was due the mother who had been
compelled to share the blame for words as abhorrent to her as they were to
the irate husband who supposed she had instigated them. Elizabeth knew
that her mother would never have a day of peace with the man in any case,
but she knew from her own experience with him that a remark such as she
had made would be used to worry her mother and to stir even more bitter
accusations than usual. In her heart she knew that nothing she could say
would change her father's feelings or alter his belief about the matter,
but she did feel that her mother was justified from her own standpoint in
making the demand. As she stirred the cake dough and pondered, she glanced
across the table to the open door of her mother's scantily furnished
bedroom opposite. A vision of ruffled pillow-shams where she was soon to
sleep came to her in strong contrast. The memory of muffled sobs which she
had heard coming from that poverty-stricken couch in the corner opposite
the door was set over against the peaceful look of the room which was to
be hers. She was going away to be happy: why not do this thing her mother
asked before she went? Elizabeth knew that her attempt at reconciliation
would be fruitless, but she resolved to do the best she could to leave all
possible comfort to the mother whose portion was sorrow and bread eaten in
bitterness and disappointment. She thought it out slowly. After pondering
a long time, during which Mrs. Farnshaw studied her but did not speak,
Elizabeth delivered her promise.

"I'll do the best I can, ma. I don't believe It'll do any good, but it
isn't fair that you should suffer for a thing you hate as bad as he does.
Don't let's talk about it, and let me find my own time to do it.
I'll--I'll do my very best."

Pushing the cake-bowl away from her, she went around the table, and taking
her mother's face between her hands she stroked the thin hair away from
the wasted forehead, and kissed her with a tenderness which brought a
quiver to the unsatisfied lips.

"I'll do it as well as I possibly know how. I--I'm going away to be happy,
and--and I want you to be happy too."

It was easier to say than to do, for things went wrong about the barn, and
when supper time arrived Elizabeth decided to wait for a more propitious
time.

In spite of her determination to get the disagreeable task behind her as
soon as possible, Elizabeth could find no chance at the breakfast table
the next morning to broach the subject, though she tried several times.
Mrs. Farnshaw gave her warning looks, but it was clearly not the time.
When at last the family was ready for divine services and Mr. Farnshaw
drove up in front of the house with the lumber wagon, the mother gave
Elizabeth a little push toward the door, admonishing her to "be quick
about it. Now's your time."

Elizabeth went slowly out. Mr. Farnshaw had just jumped out of the wagon
and when he saw his daughter coming stooped quickly to examine the leather
shoe sole which served to protect the brake. The elaborate attempt to
ignore her presence made the hard duty still harder. She waited for him to
take cognizance of her presence, and to cover her confusion adjusted and
readjusted a strap on Patsie's harness, thankful for the presence of her
favourite.

"Let that harness alone!" her father commanded when he was at last
embarrassed by his prolonged inspection of the wagon-brake.

"All right, pa," Elizabeth replied, glad to have the silence broken in any
manner. "I--I came out to talk to you. If I--if I've done anything to
annoy you, ever, I want to ask your pardon. I--ma--I want to tell you that
John Hunter and I are to be married this fall, and--and I'd like to be the
kind of friends we ought to be before I go away."

The last sounded rather good to the girl and she stopped, encouraged, also
feeling that it was best to let well enough alone; but when she looked up
at him and encountered his look she shrank as if to avoid something aimed
at her.

The tyrant detests anything which cringes before him, and Josiah Farnshaw
was as much fired to anger by what he saw in his daughter's face as he
could have been by her defiance.

"Oh, I know you'd like to be friends!" he sneered with the fierce hatred
of a man caught in an evil act. "Now that you're goin' away you'd like t'
be on good terms with me, would you? How many cows would you like for your
peaceable intentions? What's th' price of your friendship, anyhow? Of
course you don't owe me anything! You're a lady! Now that you're goin' t'
set up housekeepin' you'd like t' be good friends. You'll get nothin' from
me; I'll let you know that right here and now. Go along with you; I don't
want nothin' from you, an' I don't propose t' give nothin' to you."

It was so coarse, so brutal, so untrue, that the girl met him once in his
life as he deserved.

"Keep your cows," she said in the low tones of concentrated bitterness. "I
don't want them, nor money from you. I don't owe you anything, either.
I've done more work and furnished you more money than ever I cost you
since the day I was born. I knew no one could explain anything to you. I
told ma so, but she's afraid for her life of you, and insisted. I've tried
to keep the peace with you, really, but no one ever has or ever will be
able to do that. I'll let you alone after this."

"You damned huzzy!" the now thoroughly aroused man exclaimed, lunging
forward to strike her with his open hand. He had only listened to her so
far because there had been something so compelling in the rush of her
words that he had been stupefied by astonishment into doing so.

Patsie, who was in line with the blow, reared and threw herself against
her mate, knowing what that tone of her master's voice indicated, and his
hands were so occupied for a few seconds in quieting the team that he
could not follow his daughter and administer the chastisement he wished.

"I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!" he cried, however, when he
saw her disappearing through the open door of the house.

"Now, and what have you done?" Mrs. Farnshaw demanded when the breathless
girl pushed rapidly past her at the inner door and faced about defiantly
in the middle of the kitchen.

"I don't want to hear another word about it, ever. I've done it about as
bad as I could, I guess, but I'll never take another whipping from him,
and you needn't expect it."

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," she moaned after the family had
gone, referring to the figurative speech, "She's afraid for her life of
you." That had been meant in a very different sense. The girl would have
given much to have unsaid it, to have given any sort of explanation.

It was not possible to explain anything to Josiah Farnshaw, and
remembering the threat to flog her as soon as he returned from meeting,
Elizabeth began to put up her hair and prepare for the departure which was
her only way of escape. Josiah Farnshaw never forgot a promise of that
sort.

"I'll go to Aunt Susan's," she resolved, and as soon as she could get her
dress changed and a few things thrown quickly into the trunk which she had
partially unpacked the day before, Elizabeth took her parasol and started
toward the south. John lived in that direction also, and would be on his
way to see her, for his mother had asked Elizabeth to spend the day with
her. She would ask John to come for her trunk and then have him take her
to Susan Hornby's house. Aunt Susan would welcome her with open arms. She
was covered with perspiration when she met her lover, who was hot and
uncomfortable also, and had been cursing every mile of the shadeless
Kansas road. John's relief was so great at meeting her a couple of miles
on the way that he did not inquire why she was there at that hour till she
was seated beside him.

"But your father can't do anything to you," he objected when she had
outlined her plan of going to Aunt Susan's to stay till the wedding.
"Everybody knows that you have left there and You'll have to explain
things and get into a scandal."

Without going into details, Elizabeth insisted that he drive on at once
and get her trunk before her father and the family should get home from
church.

John Hunter argued the matter.

"If you leave home," he said slowly, refusing to drive on, "people will
talk, and it isn't to be considered."

There was a pause. Should she explain the case fully? It could not be
done. John could not be made to understand. Elizabeth knew that even in
the primitive community in which she had been brought up a man would be
filled with disgust at the idea of striking a full-grown woman on any sort
of provocation, and that a man reared as John Hunter had been reared would
be alienated not only from her family but from her.

Caught like a rat in a trap, Elizabeth Farnshaw let her future husband
study her curiously, while she deliberated and cast about for some means
of getting his approval to her scheme without villifying her parents by
telling the whole truth.

"I'll be nearer you, and Aunt Susan's always glad to have me," she said
coaxingly.

It was a good bit of argument to put forth at that moment. The sun poured
his heat out upon them in scalding fierceness, and John Hunter had cursed
his luck every mile he had covered that morning. He had been accustomed to
reach her in fifteen minutes, and the suggestion that she go back to the
old place began to look more reasonable, yet he hesitated and was
reluctant to let a breath of gossip touch his future wife. Whether
Elizabeth were right or wrong did not enter into his calculations.

It looked as if his consent was not to be obtained. She could not go
back.

"I'm not going home, and that is all that there is about it," the girl
announced in desperation.

John still hung back.

When he did not reply and it became necessary for her to go into the
details she had been trying to avoid, it was done reluctantly and with as
little emphasis put upon the possibility of physical chastisement as could
be done and convince him at all. To Elizabeth's surprise John did not take
much notice of that element. It did not occur to her at that time that it
was a strange thing that her lover should fail to be stirred by the
probability of her receiving a blow. Elizabeth had never had consideration
shown her by any one but Susan Hornby and had not yet learned to expect
it. John struck the horses with the dangling lines he held and drove on
toward the waiting trunk. She watched him as he rode by her side moodily
thinking of the gossip threatened, and while it was not the mood she
wished him to entertain, it did not occur to her that it was anything but
a natural one. They rode without speaking until the house was reached.

"This'll have to be explained to mother," he remarked discontentedly as he
shoved the unoffending trunk into the back of the wagon. Elizabeth made no
reply. She had been thinking of that very thing.

VIII

CYCLONES

Susan Hornby asked no questions when Elizabeth and John presented
themselves at her door. Their embarrassed faces warned her. She gathered
Elizabeth into her arms for a brief hug, and then pushed her toward the
inside of the house, remaining behind to show John where to put the trunk.
When it had been set beside the kitchen door she dismissed him by saying:

"I won't ask you to stay for a bite of dinner, since your mother is alone,
Mr. Hunter."

"Well--er--that is--mother expected Elizabeth over there," John stammered,
looking toward the front room.

"Tell your mother Elizabeth will stay right here till she has rested up
from that headache," the woman replied with the tone of having settled the
matter.

Elizabeth, in the other room, noted that he did not argue about it and
heard him drive away with mixed feelings. When at last Aunt Susan's
questions were answered the girl in turn became questioner.

"Will she think--John's mother--that we're coarse and common?" she asked
when she had told as much as she could bring herself to tell of the
morning's altercation.

The look on the older woman's face was not a hopeful one, and the girl got
up restlessly from the trunk-top where she had dropped beside her. She
remembered the fear, half expressed, on the schoolhouse steps two days
before and drew within herself, sick with life.

"Can I put my trunk away?" she asked, to break the awkward silence she
felt coming.

"Yes," was the relieved answer, and each took a handle, carrying the light
piece of baggage to the bedroom. At the door Elizabeth stopped short. A
strange coat and vest were spread carelessly over the bed, and a razor
strop lay across the back of the little rocking chair.

"Oh, I forgot!" Susan Hornby exclaimed, sweeping the offending male attire
into her apron. "A young fellow stopped last night and asked to stay till
he could get a house built on that land west of Hunter's. You're going to
have a bachelor for a neighbour."

"Who?" Elizabeth asked, and then added, "What will he do for a room if I
take this one?"

"I don't know," Aunt Susan replied to the last clause of the question.
"The room is yours, anyhow. I'm so glad to have you back that I'd turn him
out if need be. Honestly, we could hardly eat Saturday. Nate was as bad as
I was. They've gone to Colebyville together to-day. I'm glad Nate's got
him--he's lonesome enough these days."

It was Elizabeth's turn to cheer up Aunt Susan, for she always fell into a
gloom when she mentioned Nathan. It took Elizabeth's mind from her own
affairs, and by the time the unpacking was finished the volatile spirits
of youth had asserted themselves. They took a walk toward evening, and
only returned in time to meet John Hunter, who had come to see his
betrothed about a trip he had decided suddenly to take to Mitchell County.
He had spoken of it to Elizabeth before, and had only waited to get his
mother established and a desirable hired man to run the place in his
absence. The man had come that day asking for work and giving good
references and John had decided to go at once.

In the excitement of preparation John seemed to have forgotten the
discomforts of the morning, and though he soon took his departure, he left
Elizabeth less unhappy than she had been. Nathan and the new man were
coming in the distance as John Hunter drove away, and the girl turned back
into the kitchen to help with the supper.

"Lizzie Farnshaw! And you are the Elizabeth these folk have been talkin'
about? Well, I'll be hornswoggled!"

Nathan and the new boarder had just come in.

"Is it really you, Luther?" Elizabeth asked, and there was no mistaking
the glad tones.

They looked each other over for changes; they sat beside each other at the
table, and Elizabeth asked questions and talked excitedly while he ate.

"Your hair is darker, and it's curly," she remarked, remembering the
tow-coloured locks cut square across the boyish, sunburned neck.

Luther Hansen's face crinkled into fine lines and his blue-gray eyes
laughed amusedly.

"Got darker as I got older, Lizzie, an' th' typhoid put them girl-twists
into th' ends of it. Bet you're a wishin' for it--all th' women folks do.
Wish you had it."

They went for a walk after supper and talked of many things. He was the
same Luther, grown older and even more companionable. Elizabeth learned
that both his parents had died, leaving the then seventeen-year-old boy a
piece of land heavily mortgaged, and with nothing but a broken down team
and a superannuated cow to raise the debt. By constant labour and
self-denial the boy had lifted the financial load, and then happening to
meet a man who owned this Kansas land had traded, with the hope that on
the cheaper land he could reach out faster and get a good increase on the
original price besides.

"I remembered th' kind of land it was about here, an' didn't need t' come
an' see it first," he said. "I was goin' t' hunt you up 'fore long,