"Ed drove over with Reg and Emma; I guess he won't be very long. There was something he wanted to say to old man Sharp that he'd forgot about."

"Then you didn't get your talk with him?"

She was glad of that. It was better to have their own talk first. But as it had been he who had broached the subject of her leaving, it was he who must reopen it.

"No, but I guess anything I've got to say to him will keep till he gets back. Ed's thinking of buying a clearing-machine that's for sale over Prentice way."

"Yes, he told me."

Without turning her head, she could tell that he was looking around for the matches. He never could remember that they were kept in a jar over on the shelf back of the stove. He was going to smoke his pipe, of course. When men were nervous about anything they always flew to tobacco. Women were denied that poor consolation. But she, too, felt the necessity of having something to occupy her hands. She went back to the table, and taking some of Frank's thick woolen socks from her basket, sat down and began mechanically to darn them. She purposely placed herself so that he could only see her profile. Even then, he would see that her eyes were still red; she hadn't had time to bathe them.

"I suppose I look a sight, but poor Mrs. Sharp was so upset! She broke down and cried and of course I've been crying, too. I'm so thankful it's turned out all right for her. Poor thing, I never saw her in such a state!"

"They've got five children to feed. I guess it would make a powerful lot of difference to them," he said quietly.

"I wish you'd told me all about it before. I felt that something was worrying you, and I didn't know what." There was a pause. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"If I saved the crop, there didn't seem any use fussing, and if I didn't, you'd know soon enough."

"How could you bear to let me put those dreadful flowers here in the house?" she said, pointing to the bowl on the table.

"Oh, I guess I didn't mind, if it gave you any pleasure. You didn't know they was only a weed and a poisonous one for us farmers. You thought them darned pretty."

"That was very kind of you, Frank," said Nora. Her voice shook a little in spite of her effort to control it.

"I guess it's queer that a darned little flower like that should be able to do so much damage."

That subject exhausted, there came another pause. He was very evidently waiting her lead. Could Eddie have told him anything about the news from England? No, he hadn't had any opportunity. Besides it would have been very unlike Eddie, who, as a general rule, had a supreme talent for minding his own affairs.

"How did it happen that you didn't tell me that you had written to Eddie?"

"I guess I forgot."

She waited a few moments to make sure that her voice was quite steady:

"Frank, Eddie brought me some letters from home—from England, I mean—to-day. I've had an offer of a job back in England."

He got up slowly and went over to the corner where the broom hung to get some straws to run through the mouthpiece of his pipe. His face was turned from her, so that she could not see that he had closed his eyes for a moment and that his mouth was drawn with pain.

When he turned he had resumed his ordinary expression. His voice was perfectly steady when he spoke:

"An offer of a job? Gee! I guess you'll jump at that."

"It's funny it should have come just when you had been talking of my going away."

"Very."

Not even a comment. Oh, why didn't he say that he would be glad to have her gone, and be done with it! Anything, almost, would be easier to bear than this total lack of interest. She tried another tack.

"Have you any—any objection?"

"I guess it wouldn't make a powerful lot of difference to you if I had." He could actually smile, his good-natured, indulgent smile, which she knew so well.

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I guess you only stayed on here because you had to."

Nora's work dropped in her lap.

"Is life always like that?" she said with bitter sadness. "The things you've wanted so dreadfully seem only to bring you pain when they come."

He gave her a swift glance, but went on smoking quietly. She went over to the window again and stood looking out at the stretch of prairie. Presently she spoke in a low voice, but her words were addressed as much to herself as to him:

"Month after month, this winter, I used to sit here looking out at the prairie. Sometimes I wanted to scream at the top of my voice. I felt that I must break that awful silence or go mad. There were times when the shack was like a prison. I thought I should never escape. I was hemmed in by the snow and the cold and the stillness; cut off from everything and everybody, from all that had been the world I knew."

"Are you going to quit right now with Ed?" he asked gently.

Nora went slowly back to her chair. "You seem in a great hurry to be rid of me," she said, with the flicker of a smile.

"Well, I guess we ain't made a great success of our married life, my girl." He went over to the stove to knock the ashes from his pipe. "It's rum, when you come to figure it out," he said, when it was once more lighted; "I thought I could make you do everything I wanted, just because I was bigger and stronger. It sure did look like I held a straight flush. And you beat me."

"I?" said Nora in astonishment.

"Why, sure. You don't mean to say you didn't know that?"

"I don't know at all what you mean."

"I guess I was pretty ignorant about women," his began pacing up and down the floor as he talked. "I guess I didn't know how strong a woman could be. You was always givin' way; you done everything I told you. And, all the time, you was keeping something back from me that I couldn't get at. Whenever I thought I was goin' to put my hand on you—zip! You was away again. I guess I found I'd only caught hold of a shadow."

"I don't know what more you expected. I didn't know you wanted anything more!"

"I guess I wanted love," he said in a tone so low that she barely caught it.

He stood over by the table, looking down on her from his great height. His face was flushed, but his eyes were steady and unashamed.

"You!"

She looked at him in absolute consternation. Her breath came in hurried gasps. But her heart sang in her breast and the little pathetic droop of her mouth disappeared. Her telltale eyes dropped on her work. Not yet, not yet; she was greedy to hear more.

"I know you now less well than when you'd been only a week up to Ed's." He resumed his pacing up and down. "I guess I've lost the trail. I'm just beating round, floundering in the bush."

"I never knew you wanted love," she said softly.

"I guess I didn't know it until just lately, either."

"I suppose parting's always rather painful," she said with just the beginning of a little smile creeping round the corners of her lips.

"If you go back—when you go back," he corrected himself, "to the old country, I guess—I guess you'll never want to come back."

"Perhaps you'll come over to England yourself, one of these days. If you only have a couple of good years, you could easily shut up the place and run over for the winter," she said shyly.

"I guess that would be a dangerous experiment. You'll be a lady in England. I guess I'd still be only the hired man."

"You'd be my husband."

"N-o-o-o," he said, with a shake of the head. "I guess I wouldn't chance it."

She tried another way. She was sure of her happiness now; she could play with it a little longer.

"You'll write to me now and then, and tell me how you're getting on, won't you?"

"Will you care to know?" he asked quickly.

"Why, yes, of course I shall."

"Well," he said, throwing back his head proudly, "I'll write and tell you if I'm making good. If I ain't, I guess I shan't feel much like writing."

"But you will make good, Frank. I know you well enough for that."

"Do you?" His tone was grateful.

"I have learned to—to respect you during these months we've lived together. You have taught me a great deal. All sorts of qualities which I used to think of great value seem unimportant to me now. I have changed my ideas about many things."

"We have each learned something, I guess," he said generously.

Nora gave him a grateful glance. He stood for a moment at the far end of the room and watched her roll up the socks she had just darned. How neat and deft she was. After all, there was something in being a lady, as Mrs. Sharp had said. Neither she nor Gertie, both capable women, could do things in quite the same way that Nora did.

Oh, why had she come into his life at all! She had given him the taste for knowledge, for better things of all sorts; and now she was going away, going away forever. He had no illusions about her ever returning. Not she, once she had escaped from a life she hated. Had she not just said as much when she said that the shack had seemed like a prison to her?

And now, in place of going on in the old way that had always seemed good enough to him before he knew anything better, mulling about, getting his own meals, with only one thought, one ambition in the world—the success of his crops and the acquisition of more land that he might some day in the dim future have a few thousands laid by—he would always be wanting something he could never get without her: more knowledge of the things that made life fuller and wider and broader, the things that she prized and had known from her childhood.

It was cruel and unfair of her to have awakened the desire in him only to abandon him. To have held the cup of knowledge to his lips for one brief instant and then leave him to go through life with his thirst unslaked! Not that she was intentionally cruel. No, he thought he knew all of her little faults of temper and of pride by this. Her heart was too kindly to let her wound him knowingly, witness her tenderness to poor Mrs. Sharp only this afternoon. But it hurt, none the less. She had said that she had not known he wanted love. How should she have guessed it?

But the real thing that tortured him most was the fact that he wanted her, her, her. She had been his, his woman. No other woman in this broad earth could take her place.

A little sound like a groan escaped him.

"You'll think of me sometimes, my girl, won't you?" he said huskily.

"I don't suppose I shall be able to help it." She smiled at him over her shoulder, as she crossed the room to restore her basket to its place.

"I was an ignorant, uneducated man. I didn't know how to treat you properly. I wanted to make you happy, but I didn't seem to know just how to do it."

"You've never been unkind to me, Frank. You've been very patient with me!"

"I guess you'll be happier away from me, though. And I'll be able to think that you're warm and comfortable and at home, and that you've plenty to eat."

"Do you think that's all I want?" she suddenly flashed at him.

He gave her a quick glance and looked away immediately.

"I couldn't expect you to stay on here, not when you've got a chance of going back to the old country. This life is all new to you. You know that one."

"Oh, yes, I know it: I should think I did!" She gave a little mirthless laugh, and went over to her chair again.

"At eight o'clock every morning a maid will bring me tea and hot water. And I shall get up, and I shall have breakfast. And, presently, I shall interview the cook, and I shall order luncheon and dinner. And I shall brush the coats of Mrs. Hubbard's little dogs and take them for a walk on the common. All the paths on the common are asphalted, so that elderly gentlemen and lady's companions shan't get their feet wet."

"Gee, what a life!"

She hardly gave him time for his exclamation. As she went on, mirth, scorn, hatred and dismay came into her voice, but she was unconscious of it. For the moment, everything else was forgotten but the vivid picture which memory conjured up for her and which she so graphically described.

"And then, I shall come in and lunch, and after luncheon I shall go for a drive: one day we will turn to the right and one day we will turn to the left. And then I shall have tea. And then I shall go out again on the neat asphalt paths to give the dogs another walk. And then I shall change my dress and come down to dinner. And after dinner I shall play bezique with my employer; only I must take care not to beat her, because she doesn't like being beaten. And at ten o'clock I shall go to bed."

A wave of stifling recollection choked her for a moment so that she could not go on. Presently she had herself once more in hand.

"At eight o'clock next morning a maid will bring in my tea and hot water, and the day will begin again. Each day will be like every other day. And, can you believe it, there are hundreds of women in England, strong and capable, with red blood in their veins, who would be eager to get this place which is offered to me. Almost a lady—and thirty-five pounds a year!"

She did not look toward him, or she would have seen a look of wonder, of comprehension and of hope pass in turn over his face.

"It seems a bit different from the life you've had here," he said, looking out through the open doorway as if to point his meaning.

"And you," she said, turning her eyes upon him, "you will be clearing the scrub, cutting down trees, plowing the land, sowing and reaping. Every day you will be fighting something, frost, hail or weed. You will be fighting and I will know that you must conquer in the end. Where was wilderness will be cultivated land. And who knows what starving child may eat the bread that has been made from the wheat that you have grown! My life will be ineffectual and utterly useless, while yours——"

"What do you mean? Nora, Nora!" he said more to himself than to her.

"While I was talking to Mrs. Sharp just now, I didn't know what I was saying. I was just trying to comfort her when she was crying. And it seemed to me as if someone else was speaking. And I listened to myself. I thought I hated the prairie through the long winter months, and yet, somehow, it has taken hold of me. It was dreary and monotonous, and yet, I can't tear it out of my heart. There's beauty and a romance about it which fills my very soul with longing."

"I guess we all hate the prairie sometimes. But when you've once lived on it, it ain't easy to live anywhere else."

"I know the life now. It's not adventurous and exciting, as they think back home. For men and women alike, it's the same hard work from morning till night, and I know it's the women who bear the greater burden."

"The men go into the towns, they have shooting, now and then, and the changing seasons bring variety in their work; but for the women it's always the same weary round: cooking, washing, sweeping, mending, in regular and ceaseless rotation. And yet it's all got a meaning. We, too, have our part in opening up the country. We are its mothers, and the future is in us. We are building up the greatness of the nation. It needs our courage and strength and hope, and because it needs them, they come to us. Oh, Frank, I can't go back to that petty, narrow life! What have you done to me?"

"I guess if I asked you to stay now, you'd stay," he said hoarsely.

"You said you wanted love."—The lovely color flooded her face.—"Didn't you see? Love has been growing in me slowly, month by month, and I wouldn't confess it. I told myself I hated you. It's only to-day, when I had the chance of leaving you forever, that I knew I couldn't live without you. I'm not ashamed any more. Frank, my husband, I love you."

He made a stride forward as if to take her in his arms, and then stopped short, smitten by a recollection.

"I—I guess I've loved you from the beginning, Nora," he stammered.

She had risen to her feet and stood waiting him with shining eyes.

"But why do you say it as if——What is it, Frank?"

"I can't ask you to stay on now; I guess you'll have to take that job in England, for a while, anyway."

"Why?"

"The inspector's condemned my whole crop; I'm busted."

"Oh, why didn't you tell me!"

"I just guess I couldn't. I made up my mind when I married you that I'd make good. I couldn't expect you to see that it was just bad luck. Anyone may get the weed in his crop. But, I guess a man oughtn't to have bad luck. The odds are that it's his own fault if he has."

"Ah, now I understand about your sending for Eddie."

"I wrote to him when I knew I'd been reported."

"But what are you going to do?"

"It's all right about me; I can hire out again. It's you I'm thinking of. I felt pretty sure you wouldn't go back to Ed's. I don't fancy you taking a position as lady help. I didn't know what was going to become of you, my girl. And when you told me of the job you'd been offered in England, I thought I'd have to let you go."

"Without letting me know you were in trouble!"

"Why, if I wasn't smashed up, d'you think I'd let you go? By God, I wouldn't! I'd have kept you. By God, I'd have kept you!"

"Then you're going to give up the land," she made a sweeping gesture which took in the prospect without.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I guess I can't do that. I've put too much work in it. And I've got my back up, now. I shall hire out for the summer, and next winter I can get work lumbering. The land's my own, now. I'll come back in time for the plowing next year."

He had been gazing sadly out of the door as he spoke. He turned to her now ready to bring her what comfort he could. But in place of the tearful face he had expected to see, he saw a face radiant with joy and the light of love. In her hand was a little slip of colored paper which she held out to him.

"Look!"

"What's that?"

"The nephew of the lady I was with so long—Miss Wickham, you know—has made me a present of it. Five hundred pounds. That's twenty-five hundred dollars, isn't it? You can take the quarter-section you've wanted so long, next to this one. You can get all the machinery you need. And"—she gave a little, happy, mirthful laugh—"you can get some cows! I've learned to do so many things, I guess I can learn to milk, if you'll teach me and be very, very patient about it. Anyway, it's yours to do what you like with. Now, will you keep me?"

"Oh, my girl, how shall I ever be able to repay you!"

"Good Heavens, I don't want thanks! There's nothing in all the world so wonderful as to be able to give to one you love. Frank, won't you kiss me?"

He folded her in his arms.

"I guess it's the first time you ever asked me to do that!"

"I'm sure I'm the happiest woman in all the world!" she said happily.

As they stood in the doorway, he with his arm about her, they saw Eddie coming up the path toward them.

Marsh's honest face, never a good mask for hiding his feelings, wore an expression of bewildered astonishment at their lovelike attitude.

"It's all right, old dear," said Nora with a happy laugh; "don't try to understand it, you're only a man. But I'm not going back to England, to Mrs. Hubbard and her horrid little dogs; I'm going to stay right here. This overgrown baby has worked on my feelings by pretending that he needs me."

"And now, if you'll be good enough to hurry Reggie a little, we'll all have some supper; it's long past the proper time."

And as she bustled about her preparations, her brother heard her singing one of the long-ago songs of their childhood.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK