We went on just the same for a week or two, friendly, pleasant, but some influence I could not shake off drew me nearer. Even now I suppose Dan was a fascinating man, since girls yielded so readily to his sway and older women made friends with him.

It was the full of the harvest moon, a magnificent, glowing night. There were some corn-husking bees to wind up with a dance in a new barn. There were boats going out rowing, for the lake was like a sea of glass. Dan really hated the water—I loved it dearly, but the great lake was occasionally deceitful at its blandest, and often a monster in its power to small craft. The larger vessels were safe enough. Father and I took a sail now and then, but Dan never went for pleasure.

"Ruth," he said this evening, "do you remember the ride you once had on Chita? Come out and take another. There may not be a night like this in a year again."

"Oh, I was such a little girl then. And we cannot both ride her now," I protested.

"Why not?" In the moon floods of light his eyes transfixed me.

"Because I am so much larger. And you have grown stouter."

He laughed. "See here," and catching me with one hand he whirled me off the steps and clear around.

"You weigh about seventy-five pounds," gravely. "If I asked Chita to carry seventy-five pounds of grain and my stoutness she would go off like a bird."

"I weigh ninety-two," I returned with dignity.

"If it was ninety-four you would have to ride all the same," in a determined tone. "Do you want anything about you? But it is like a summer night. Come, I told your father I was going to take you. Or would you rather go to the dance?"

"Suppose I would?" I said saucily.

"We could go to the dance afterward."

For a week we had gone on as if nothing had happened. But every day the duty had grown clearer to me. Here was the son father needed. I could make all of his life easier. He was the dearest person in the world to me, and why should I not think of him first? There seemed two sides to me, which there would not have been if I had loved and understood truly what marriage meant, that it was not all father's comfort and interest.

"Come." He sprang on Chita. Then he made a sudden decisive motion with his arm, and gathered me up in front of him.

"I should have a pillion," I began complainingly.

"I want you here, just here, where I can see you and cannot lose you. If I did, your father would beat out my brains with his crutch, and I would deserve it. There, are you comfortable?"

He settled me and placed his arm tightly about me, turning Chita with his right hand.

"I am very uncomfortable," I retorted petulantly.

"You won't mind it in a moment when we get out of this beastly street."

"Oh, don't!" I tried to loosen his arm. "I can't get my breath. I don't want to go."

"Will that do? I want you to be comfortable and happy. Five different girls have asked me to the dance to-night. Four of them would have been miserable if I had confined my attentions to one, and the whole five would have been indignant if I had distributed them impartially. And you are ungrateful."

Something in his tone touched me. After a pause he said, "And you have them all. Ruth, I want you to love me with your whole soul and body. I want you to marry me."

"There is Miss Campbell and Miss Conover. Think how much finer looking they are. Oh, I can't think why you should want to marry me."

"Well, queer as it may seem, and indifferent as you are now, there are some other points. I want you. I've resolved to win you, and shall do my best. And your father needs my assistance, may for some time to come. Can't we three pull together? You are not old enough to have loved any one else, you don't know anything about love, you little white blossom, so I shall teach you. Your father has consented."

I felt as if a net was drawn around me. Did I want to escape and leave father to suffer all sorts of anxieties? Here was some one strong enough, willing enough to shoulder them.

"Oh, I don't know—I don't know!"

"You don't love Ben," he declared fiercely. "It would be folly to wait all those years."

"Oh, no, no," I cried.

"And mother had a half hope Homer would wait for you. You see I know the family plans. Chris is too young even for you to wait."

There was another. But it might be years before we should see him. And he would have changed in all that grand life. He was learning so much that we common people would seem beneath him.

"Chita!" How tender the tone was!

At the word she was off, for we had left the crooked, uneven streets behind us. What a night it was! You could see the mountains of the moon traced out in vague darkness, and the rest in glorious effulgence. Some planets were visible, but she seemed to outshine the starry crowd, and veil the blue of the sky in a silver haze. Great far reaches of prairie like a sea, the stubble holding a gem on every little twig. From somewhere came a waft of wild grape, but it was so dry there was very little dew. The crunch of Chita's hoofs made a regular beat of music, but around all was a hush of emptiness, a kind of mystery that allured yet filled one with terror at its very solemnity, an atmosphere of strange enchantment, as if one could ride on to another world. Was I going on to a strange new world?

"Isn't it splendid! I sometimes come out here alone, in fact, though I've ridden children on Chita, I've never taken one of the older girls out in this boundless solitude. Chita and I keep our secrets together. What do you suppose is beyond? Oh, must every one die in the end and go to that strange country? Wouldn't you hate to die, Little Girl? I want a long life of pleasure and love, and business activities and money making, and I wish I could never grow old. Why can't one slough off the old body when it gets feeble, and have a new vigorous one right here, with this glorious life. What do we know about any other world?"

I was transfixed by some subtle power. Indeed, I hardly knew what he said half the time, I was so penetrated by some strange influence. I thought I would like to be in that other country and have no more perplexities.

We turned at length, and for the first part went like the wind. Was Chita a creature of steel nerves and sinews? I caught Dan's arm.

"Are you afraid? Ruth, I wouldn't have any harm come to you for my own life. And what is there about you, slim little thing, only half awake to the real meanings of life! But you will know them all some day, and I shall be your teacher."

How exultant his tone was!

When we reached home father was in bed, tired and lonely was all he would admit. Dan was very eager to know if he could do anything, but father said no, he had some bad twinges in his hip and back, and Jolette had heated some flannels in whiskey and laid them on. He would soon fall asleep and forget it.

"He was around a little too much to-day," said Dan.

I went to the door with him and he almost crushed me in his arms and kissed away my breath. I felt helpless in this vehemence, yet I had to admit now that he was my lover, would one day be my husband. Could I be as glad and happy as most of the girls were?

I went back to father's bedside. Oh, what should I ever do without him. Yes, it was my duty to do what I could for his comfort. That thought inspired me. To prolong his life!

I was not altogether a meek sweetheart. There were times when I feared and resented Dan's assumed authority. Once I said, in some rather heated argument:

"Oh, I am not compelled to marry you. I might say no, even when the minister asked me."

"You will love me so much by that time you will not want to," and his laugh was tantalizing.

He took it for granted that I should love him even as he desired. I would not have any one told, even his mother, and I declared I was not engaged until I had promised to marry him. I think now he liked the secrecy. It did not make any outward change in my life. I had a number of my young friends in on my birthday. I was sixteen and we had a merry time. Father brought out some of his best quips and told some funny Yankee stories.

"You'll have a better time without me," Dan said, and I think I did. There was no need of self-consciousness or embarrassment.

Father had a new plan that interested him strongly. This was building a house for me, for us all, but it was to be mine, farther away from the river, nearer the lake and on higher ground. It was afterward to be Washington Square. He had taken quite a plot of ground there a year or so before he was hurt, in the way of trade. We had a good deal of amusement planning it. It was to be of brick, full two stories, but with a peaked roof. He would have two rooms on the lower floor, a sort of office and a sleeping-room. We would have a real parlor, a dining-room—living-room we called it then—and a commodious kitchen. There was room for a vegetable garden, a hennery, and some flowers. Pigs were at last debarred from the streets. Father raised so many now that he had a separate enclosure. Some people were trying to raise sheep and making quite a success, only there were at times forays of wolves, when every one turned out for a wolf hunt.

The old house was to be built on and turned into stores. Business was increasing on every side. The terms of peace with Mexico were arranged early in the new year. For the territory ceded we were to pay fifteen millions. There were bitter arguments pro and con. One party was resolutely against our having any more land, we were large enough now, we had not settled half the country we did own. The other side pointed out the advantage the Louisiana purchase had been. Of course we needed the Mississippi River, but this wild land, overrun with Mexicans and Indians, would be more plague than profit.

Father was in favor of having all we could get.

The spring came early that year. We had discovered in our county a fine bed of clay and were making brick. All our lumber had to be brought from a distance.

I liked the new situation very much, only it was so far from the dear old friends. But it would be more convenient for father, and he had faith that the city would push up this way. We could see the lake, there were so few houses between.

I said first I would not be married until I was in the new house, but there were reasons why it seemed best not to wait, and when people once began to suspect Dan admitted the truth. We told his mother first of all, and her joy really brought tears to my eyes.

"I have always coveted you," she confessed, "though I should have picked out any one of them sooner than Dan, but I think he has about sowed all his wild oats, and you and your father will be a sort of ballast. I used to think you and Norman would make a match, but he's so weaned away, and he never could content himself here, I know. I expect to hear in every letter that he has married a grand lady. I suppose you could have waited for Ben, but that would have taken years. Dan does love you."

I had never thought of marrying Norman, for when I was old enough to speculate on such matters, I felt he had gone to the higher round above me in education, accomplishments, and I was afraid he would despise the crude, unhandsome town after the splendid cities of the Old World. That was something out of my reach, so I could love the old life with him in it like a story where the incidents and characters were firmly enwrought in one's mind.

Our courtship had been rather curious. At times Dan's impetuousity swept me off my bearings and I could do nothing but yield. I had a vague feeling it was his overpowering domination, rather than anything I wanted to give. There were moments when it seemed as if I did not like love, and would fain run anywhere to escape it. Since father was very well content I would make myself so. And Mother Hayne said laughingly—"Men get over this tremendous love making after marriage and settle down into reasonable beings."

Father said we would get all the furnishing stuff when we were in the new house. We could tell better what we wanted.

I wished I had the courage to be married in church with the ceremony Sophie had. But I was not a Catholic, and I should have had to fight for such a thing. Dan wanted to be married quietly at home. But I coaxed Mother Hayne over to my views, and we settled upon the old Methodist Church.

"I shall be married there or not at all!" I said to Dan decidedly.

So we were married in the new Methodist Church on Washington Street, at noon, and I had three bridesmaids. My gown was white Suisse with plenty of lace, and Dan gave a dinner at the hotel. It was very merry and pleasant. Healths were proffered, good wishes and kisses, for everybody kissed a bride then. I think Dan glowered a little over this. He had to take a good deal of chaffing and I was advised to "keep him with a pretty tight rein and make him toe the mark." There was the old joke of starting him out in the morning to kindle the fire, and having him split the kindlings and bring the water.

The infare was to be at our new house, and invitations were scattered freely.

I wondered if there were any heart burnings among the girls. I did not feel at all elated that I had captured him. Rather he had captured me. I could say honestly I had never made an effort.

Then we returned home to our little old house and had to take a horrible serenade. Dan went out and made a speech, gave the ringleader of the party some money and quiet was restored.

A fortnight after that we moved. Dan's mother gave him a feather bed and pillows, two heavy blankets and two light ones and six teaspoons that had been her mother's. She thought the oldest son ought to have them, and a tablecloth that had been in her wedding outfit.

The new house was very nice and comfortable, but a modern bride would have rather disdained it. The infare was a success. After that we were let to go our way, for there were several other brides, Miss Campbell being one, and she had married a promising young lawyer.

Father improved a good deal that summer. Jolette had gone with us and there was a half-grown boy who did chores, worked in the garden and went home nights.

Before father had finished his stores he was offered such an advantageous price for them that he sold and reinvested in land farther out. Dan hardly considered that wise.

"Everybody thought I was bit with the old Towner place," and father laughed. "The city is going to stretch out, and the lake shore is going to be valuable."

"Was I happy and in love?" Truly I could not tell. I counted on the time when Dan's vehemence should be toned down. He bought a pretty new horse, broken for a lady's riding, and we used to have splendid gallops.

Norman Hayne was travelling in Prussia and Russia. Ben entered Harvard. I think he did not altogether approve my marriage, but I gave him good reasons for it. Homer had a little son. Everybody seemed prosperous, though there were troublous times about money.

The world was set ablaze then about the wonderful discovery of gold in California, the dream of the old Spanish explorers. Men rushed to the gold fields in perfect armies. And now we felt as a nation there was a great deal of grandeur in owning from ocean to ocean. Marvels were told of the western coast.

I settled down into a housewifely body. Father said now and then, "Oh, that is so like your mother."

He could not discard his crutches. He still kept up his interest in the Prairie Farmer, and had begun to write other articles. The water works were occupying a good deal of attention. The lead mines were inexhaustible. Yet it took almost a week to get to New York. The Illinois and Michigan canal was opened. There were some brick buildings, and two aristocratic blue limestone ones that were pointed out as curiosities, having been built of stone that had been brought in ballast from the lower lakes. Michigan Avenue that was.

The Chicago River was being widened. Sidewalks were laid as the streets were filled up. Old Chicago was passing away, just as the Little Girl had vanished, though father often used the name. Dan had given me all sorts of pet names at first, then he settled down to Ruth.

And so a year passed, two years. Dan was much interested in city affairs, father was making money in the old ways. We had settled down, and I supposed I had all the happiness that comes to married life. No, not all. There was no child to gladden our hearts and draw us together. Homer had another little boy.

In the third year of our married life an incident happened that, perhaps, was an entering wedge in the dissatisfaction that came afterwards. One day father received a letter from a cousin who had married another cousin by the name of Gaynor. She had been left a widow some years before. The homestead had been willed to the eldest son, subject to her life-right in four rooms one side of the hall, and her living from the farm. The three daughters between had married, there was one son, now sixteen, who did not get on at all well with his elder brother. He was a smart, bright boy, with a fair education. Now, he was wild to go to California, but she could not bear to think of the rough life and the temptations, so she was emboldened to write to her cousin, who she heard had done well in Chicago. "Could he put John in the way of anything?"

There was an appeal to old memories that touched me. Father so seldom mentioned his people.

"That's queer, isn't it?" he said, looking up with a dry sort of smile. "John Gaynor! Why, I had forgotten that I had a namesake."

"You might send for him," I suggested. "Sixteen. And if he is a nice boy—why do you give that absent sort of smile?"

"I was thinking. When I was a young fellow of nineteen or so I fell headlong in love with a second cousin, Sarah Parks. She was twenty-three. She reasoned me mostly out of it, and I found she had a fancy for an own cousin, Luther Gaynor. So she married him. Then I went to the western part of the State, and when I had managed to get a little together, married your mother. She sent me a paper with a notice of her husband's death, seven or eight years ago, and I wrote her a letter. It is odd how the old things come back to you. I recovered from my penchant for Sarah when she settled into a regular common farmer's wife."

"Then first love isn't always the best or truest," I said thoughtfully.

"That wasn't love, but a boyish fancy. I'm glad to hear, though. I wonder what this young John Gaynor is like?"

"Suppose you do send for him. If we shouldn't like him—but you may find something for him to do. And if he isn't worth anything you can pack him off home again."

"You can plan clear to the end, Ruth," and he laughed. "Well, we'll see."

Dan had gone to Galena, as he had some lead interests. Mr. Bayne, from the Farmer, dropped in that evening. After some newspaper talk he said:

"I don't suppose you know any nice, likely boy, Gaynor, that we could get in the office to learn the trade. Ours is as slow as molasses in January, and never can learn to set type. That Chris Hayne would be fine, but he has his heart set upon being a parson."

"Well, that's queer!" Father looked at me and made a funny face. "I have a namesake in Massachusetts who wants to come West."

"Yankee boys are generally bright and good spellers. You want one in a newspaper office. If he's worth his salt we'll take him, and let him earn bread and butter besides."

"John Gaynor. That's a good solid name," and father's eyes twinkled mirthfully.

"If he takes after you he's just the fellow to come to Chicago," was the reply.

Father nodded. "I guess I'll send."

"Do, do," was the eager response.

The very next day father Hayne was taken violently ill. I went down there and found Sophie trying to comfort mother. What should we do—send for Dan?

"Wait until to-morrow and see what the doctor says," returned the anxious wife.

Two of the neighbors were in, and I felt I must go home for the night, as I could be of no real assistance. But I was deeply troubled.

The next day we sent a messenger for Dan.

It did not seem that a strong, hearty man could fail so rapidly. But the disease was stronger, and in ten days Homer Hayne took the last journey, and lay in the best room, dead. Dan had come home in time, but his father was delirious until he went into a stupor, not knowing any one the last few days.

It was a dreadful shock to us all. Poor mother was beside herself with grief. There was a very sympathetic obituary notice in the papers. He had been a good, upright citizen, if he had not filled a very high place. And he had given the country five fine sons.

"That of itself is a great thing," declared father.

Sophie took the poor widow home for a few days. She was the tenderest of daughters. I would have been glad to do it, but grandmother was so fond of the children, we thought they would cheer her.

We wondered what she would like to do.

"Oh, I must keep my own home," she said. "I have Chris left."

"Yes," determined Dan. "That is best for the present. Father did not make a will, but not one of us would be mean enough to want to rob her of her home. She worked for it as well as father."

I was glad to hear him say that.

Mrs. Gaynor had not answered the letter. There had been such a sort of upheaval it had gone out of my mind. So I was mightily surprised when I came home one morning from some trading to see a young fellow sitting on the porch with father, and hear him say:

"Ruth, this is John Gaynor."

A nice, wholesome youth, between boy and man, with a fair, clean skin, rather light blue eyes, but with quite deep eyelashes and brows, and light brown hair, not with a decided golden tint, but giving the effect of having gold dust sprinkled over it. Not especially handsome, yet not plain, bright and intelligent.

He rose and shook hands with me. I liked him on the spot.

"I see I have taken you by surprise. Cousin Gaynor's letter was so cordial that mother thought I had better start at once. I should get here about as soon as an answer, as I have been explaining. I owe you a thousand thanks for your welcome."

"The thanks are mostly due to father," I returned. "I am very glad you have come. It is a pleasure to feel that there is some one in the world really related to us. Did you get here without any difficulty?"

"I did not have much, and I met with some entertaining fellow travellers. Mother said I had a tongue in my head and that I ought to have enough wit in my brain to ask needful questions. What a wonderful country it is! I am full of astonishment."

I smiled, the tone was so frank, one of those full round tones that inspire confidence. But I had to excuse myself and interview Jolette about the dinner.

When I returned he and father were in full tide about relatives who had died, and who had married, who had gone away, and about his own sisters, married to farmers and interested in their own lives. It seemed delightful, as if one was reading an entertaining book.

Dan did not come home to dinner, he often took it at the nearest hotel when he was busy. After father's rest we had the carriage ordered up and took a drive first along the shore of the magnificent lake, then over in the prairies. There were acres and acres of corn standing in ranks, their feathery golden helmets blowing about, their uniform of richest green dazzling in the sunlight. They looked so strong, so masterful, almost as if they might start, and march you down with human power. The boy was wild with enthusiasm. It had an odd effect upon father. His eyes brightened, the set lines in his face seemed to fill out, he looked glad and happy, and it thrilled me in every nerve. I did love him so in his misfortune.

It was quite late in the afternoon when Dan came home. I had been arranging the supper table between whiles looking after some choice cookery I did not want to trust altogether to Jolette. He walked straight in.

"Who's that on the stoop hobnobbing with your father?" he asked in surprise.

"Oh, Dan, it's a new John Gaynor from father's old State, and it's so queer how it all came about," glancing up eagerly.

I began at the very beginning, the letter from Mrs. Gaynor.

"Well, I think I might have been informed of the matter instead of having it kept a secret from me," he exclaimed resentfully.

"But, Dan, you see you were at Galena, and then your father was so ill and all that. It really went out of my mind. Father supposed Mrs. Gaynor would write again."

"Did your father send for that fellow?" His tone was stern and there was an angry flash in his eye. It roused resentment within me.

"He did," I answered bravely, but with some trepidation of heart. Then I explained Mr. Bayne's call that evening and the proffer of the situation.

"Well, I like that! To have some other people's relations dumped upon you in this secret, underhand fashion."

I stood up very straight and glanced in Dan's eyes. "I suppose father has a right to ask a relative to his own house," I said with dignity.

Dan flushed and his brow was one sharp frown.

"I thought the house was to be yours," he made answer in a biting tone. "And I did suppose your husband had some rights in it!"

"Oh, Dan, don't let us quarrel about the house or this young cousin or anything. Nothing must come between our love for each other," I implored, throwing my arms about his neck and kissing him. Then I knew he had been drinking.

Perhaps he felt ashamed. "I'm not quarrelling," he said gruffly. "But a man does hate to find that his wife has kept secrets from him for weeks and weeks."

I had explained the whole matter and it was useless to reiterate it. But I did say—"Young John Gaynor needn't live here, you know."

He made no answer but went to his room to fix up for supper.

I could feel that father was hurt and amazed by his indifference at the table, which went almost to the verge of rudeness. Afterward he took his hat and marched out. I tried to make amends. I felt he would not have acted so if he had been perfectly sober.