Oh, father! could you have but seen truly, how great would have been your joy!

Each day Elizabeth watched the boys and girls come and go past Nathan Hornby's house, and when the cape was finished she and Aunt Susan went daily on shopping expeditions. It was the most wonderful week of her fifteen years, and was well rounded out by going to church on Sunday and for the first time listening to a choir, and seeing a window of softly coloured glass. She almost wondered if she had been transported from the body to the heaven of crowns and harps which her mother loved to describe.

To heaven Elizabeth Farnshaw had gone in very truth, but it was the heaven of adolescence and developing womanhood. In the short time she had been observing the comings and goings of the boys and girls of their neighbourhood one young man had begun to stand out from the rest. Elizabeth was nearly sixteen, and when she saw him now in a pew a few seats ahead of her she made a little movement of astonishment.

Aunt Susan caught the sound of the indrawn breath and looked around inquiringly, but Elizabeth, with eyes modestly down, studied her gray-gloved hands and seemed unaware of her scrutiny. Happiness had been Elizabeth Farnshaw's daily portion for weeks, but this was different. Here was happiness of another sort, with other qualities, composed of more compelling elements. The gamut of bliss had not all been run. Elizabeth had progressed from Arcadia to Paradise and was invoicing her emotions. She never shied around a subject, but looked all things in the face; and she found this delightfully surprising world of emotions as entrancing as the external one of mellow light, music, good clothes, and educational prospects. The rest of the hour was a blissful dream, in which the only thought was a wish for Luther and his stunted pony and the freedom of grassy slopes where she could pour out her newfound joy. With each new event of this life the loss of Luther was accentuated.

Nathan Hornby and his wife had no acquaintances in Topeka. They left the church as soon as the service was over. The young girl went with them, conscious that he was behind her, glad that her new cape was finished, wondering if he noticed it, eager to be seen yet wanting to hide, and foolishly aglow and wishing devoutly that she had eyes in the back of her head. Henceforth Elizabeth lived in the thought of seeing him. She dubbed him "The Unknown," and if she looked out of the window at home, it was in the hope of seeing him pass; on the way to school she was alert and watchful for a glimpse of him in the distance; if she went to church it was to look for him as soon as seated, though he was rarely there. If she saw him in the morning her day was made glad; if she failed to see him she looked forward with anticipation to the next day.

The winter spent itself. January passed, and February. The glad days ran on in kaleidoscopic readjustment of joy, work, wonder, and unfoldment, as far as Elizabeth's own life was concerned. After the manner of youth, her own affairs absorbed her. In fact the young girl was so filled with the delights of her own little world that it was only gradually that she began to understand that the life in Topeka was not as fortunate with the dear couple who had shared with her their home. The first signs of trouble were made manifest to her by the increasing tenderness with which Susan Hornby hovered around her mate, and her evident and growing solicitude.

Elizabeth was startled when she did at last comprehend the gloom and anxiety about her. The manner of the pair prevented questions, but, as she watched covertly, Aunt Susan's distress was transferred to her. Elizabeth was not curious, but she was intensely sympathetic, and from disinterested motives she became keenly observant of all that took place about her. No opportunity to help offered. With a sharp realization that her best friends were in trouble, she was obliged to conceal any trace of that knowledge. Nathan and his wife talked apart and in low tones, avoiding the young girl's presence, and were evidently puzzled and uneasy. It was Elizabeth's way to make the troubles of those about her her own. Longing to help, it was impossible to be indifferent. Gradually she got bits of indirect light upon the subject. From little things dropped accidentally, and often from explanations which circumstances forced upon them, Elizabeth learned that money was scarce. This came as a shock, and with all the hurt and heartsick worry which the mention of finances always brought to the girl. Why must people have money? she asked herself daily. And mixed with dreams of "The Unknown" came speculations as to the part which money played in the game of life, and the bondage of men to it, and a longing to be free from its withering grasp. In her childish mind the matter of freedom became slightly mixed and she dreamed dreams of being free by owning unlimited amounts of it, and she coveted marvellous bank accounts, acquired in some mystical way, with which the woes of humanity could be relieved by giving. Along with this new idea of dispensing charity grew a desire to know why the crop of cash was short in Nathan Hornby's home. In her innocent way she led up to the subject of expenses in general, but Aunt Susan kept family affairs strictly in the family and vouchsafed no explanations, unaware that the example she set in that way was to bear strange and unexpected fruit. But though Elizabeth carried the reflex of the anxiety of those about her, she was scarcely sixteen, and youth and joy and life claimed her attention and the affairs of her stage in life's span crowded out the affairs of others.

These were days of transition. The child was becoming a woman. The love which was flowing out of her heart like a spring freshet toward one who, because she saw him less often was the more often in her thoughts, was making Elizabeth Farnshaw more observant of those who professed love. Desiring mutual relations, she became sensitive to the communications of those about her who had to do with mutual relations.

Elizabeth saw that the more trouble clouded the brow of Nathan Hornby the cheerier and closer Aunt Susan drew to him. There was none of the quarrels here to which Elizabeth had become accustomed when things went wrong at home. The contrast between her father's and mother's daily life and that of Nathan and Susan Hornby in times of trouble was the subject of constant thought. Nathan and Susan Hornby were to be guide-posts along the highway of Elizabeth Farnshaw's domestic affairs. Love pointed her thoughts toward marriage, and here was a worthy model after which to build. Her natural affection and gratitude were enhanced by the fact that this couple with whom she lived, and who were otherwise very dear to her, were the immediate example of all that was noble in the world of her present dreams.

The fact that the harmony between Aunt Susan and her mate was of stern stuff and not matured solely upon success and pleasure added to the strength of that example. Elizabeth had not been taken into the confidence of either; their private affairs were kept screened from the gaze of any but themselves. By a word dropped here and there, however, she learned that Nathan had speculated and lost much money; also that he had favoured measures advanced by butter-tongued lobbyists, and that he had lost the good-will of many of his constituents.

While Elizabeth watched the tender association of Nathan Hornby and his wife and found such glowing tribute in her heart toward the life they lived together, a tragedy, in spite of the support and affection lavished by a faithful wife, was to leave the sunny, cordial man a broken, half-suspicious one.

Nathan Hornby was to learn that legislative assemblies were death-traps to those whom providence had failed to coach in diplomacy and judgment, that legislation was a game at which none but gamesters might successfully play, a devouring flame singeing the wings of all who failed to distinguish between the light of a common candle and that of a real sun, that it was a nightmare to most, and ticklish business for all. Unable to distinguish between the good and the bad intentions of those who advocated the passage of bills, convinced long before the end of the legislative session that a bill looking innocent and direct in its wording might be evil and indirect in its outworking, Nathan became more and more confused and less and less able to withstand the attacks made upon him.

Nathan Hornby was a leaden figure in the legislative assembly. He was honest, but slow of wit, and apt to become passive if pushed beyond his power to understand. This man who could throw the earth up to a hill of corn with skill and precision, who could build a haystack which would turn the rains and snows of winter, and break a colt to the harness without breaking its spirit, who had handled successfully the problems to which he had been trained, was not able to throw arguments up to the legislative hill or protect his reputation against the floods of criticism and accusation to which his actions were subjected either here in the Capitol or at home among his constituents. His spirit was broken: he recognized that he was totally unfit for the position into which fortune had thrust him. Nathan sat back in his chair, in the House, with few books and papers on the desk before him, and these unopened, his manner, like his wrinkled boots, indicative of the farm, his whole attitude that of the unsophisticated. He listened to the speeches made around him, but had no ideas to express. He was a pathetic figure. Only the accidents of Grasshopper Year, when legislative timber was scarce, could have placed him in such a position. His tough, shaven cheeks grew thinner day by day as he pulled at the brush of grizzled chin-whiskers and tried to understand what went on before him.

During those days Susan was both his refuge and the cross of his crucifixion. The deeper his difficulties became the more he turned to her for help, certain not only that she understood better than he the measures about which his colleagues argued, but that she understood him and his failures, as well as his needs. It was because Susan understood that the cross was so heavy. If his wife had been a dull woman, if she had been a woman without ambitions of her own, if she could have been hoaxed into thinking him the equal of his associates, it would have been easier; but Nathan was aware that Susan Hornby knew to the finest detail the nature of his failure as well as she understood and loved the best in him. During those gloomy days the man marvelled at the gentleness of her solicitations for his cheering and encouragement, not realizing that woman is by nature faithful where man is appreciative of her devotion. Appreciation! that had been the keynote of Nathan Hornby's attitude toward his wife. Susan had always known what she ought to do, what she wanted to do, and what it was best for her to do, and in all matters where her individual affairs were concerned Nathan had never interposed coercion nor advice. If Susan made mistakes, her husband knew that they were the mistakes of the head and not of the heart, and left her to correct them in her own way.

Susan Hornby had always been free, and now the walls of love and trust which Nathan Hornby had builded about their home for nearly twenty years were to be a flawless rampart behind which he could take refuge from foes without and receive help from within. At Nathan's request his wife came day after day and listened to the discussions toward the end of the session. Nathan sat before her dumb, but she was the anchor to his drifting soul as the political landslide took the ground out from under his feet.

"I only wisht I'd 'a' taken you in on this thing sooner," he said on one occasion, and remembered those first weeks when he had felt self-sufficient, and had made false moves at the State House, and had also let himself be inveigled into buying "a few margins." That was the bitterest drop in his cup. Wheat had dropped steadily from the very day he had begun buying. A steady decline in prices was unthinkable, and it was not till their land was endangered that the trusting man began to take alarm, and even then he let the speculators who profited by the sales induce him to make one more wild investment to save that which he had already lost.

His certainty that his neighbors would take revenge upon him for political differences by sly prods regarding speculation was of slight importance, but Susan was to be humiliated before them!—Susan, who had tried to help him to see the dangers—Susan, who did not complain when she was called upon to sign the deeds to the land she had helped to win from the Indians and the wilderness of uncultivated things. Nathan remembered on that bitter day that but for her adventurous spirit he would have been working at day's wages in old Indiana, instead of having a home and being an active member of his community and a member of the legislature of his state, with opportunities to prove himself a man in the world of men. He had failed, and his failure reacted upon her. It was not the loss of money and political prestige alone which bit. Another phase of their life in Topeka added its humiliation. Nathan had wanted his wife to share his political honours and had found himself ignorant of every means by which these things could be brought to her. He had heard of gay winters at the Capital, but they lived apart from it all. The house in which he had placed her was attractive and on a good street, but the men whom he met at the State House soon saw that nothing was to be gained through knowing Nathan Hornby, and failed to ask their wives to call upon his wife.

Disaster is in exact ratio to our valuation of things. Although Nathan Hornby had lost three fourths of his land, his reputation as a business man and politician, and his faith in men, he still had left the one essential gift which should have helped him to win again all that which he had lost. Susan Hornby, like Ruth of old, abandoned all else and abode with her husband in love, cheering him at each problematical step, and saying as they returned from the notary's office after signing away their land to a stranger:

"Never mind, Nate, there are only two of us," and for the first time since their little daughter had been taken from them, he had replied:

"Yes, only two, thank God!" and had kissed awkwardly the hand laid over his mouth, and Susan had seen the glitter of a tear on his faded lashes, the first in many years.

Susan knew that Nathan would never forget the failures of that year, but she also knew that the comfort of accustomed activities would help to fill his mind and keep his thoughts from sore introspection. Here in Topeka there was nothing to do but cogitate and reflect. It was therefore a relief to her when Elizabeth received a letter from her mother summoning her home to teach a spring term of school. While at any other time she would have been filled with indignation at the recall of Elizabeth just as she was beginning to get settled to her new work, Susan Hornby felt that Elizabeth needed education less at this point than Nathan needed the busy seeding season to occupy his troubled thoughts.



CHAPTER III

REFORMS NOT EASY TO DISCUSS

Elizabeth kept her tears and regrets to herself. She cried them out on her pillow that night, all the disappointments and handicaps of that wonderful year of experience and aspiration, but as she cried she planned the arrangements of her going.

The letter was received on Thursday night; Elizabeth decided that she would go for her books the next day, and say her farewells to desk, recitation room, and the halls that had been dear to her. When Elizabeth was called to the blackboard that afternoon to explain a problem in algebra, the board, the pointer, the very chalk in her fingers cried aloud their unity with her life and thought, and she sat down when it was over with a great throbbing in her throat and ears, and a sense of overwhelming disaster.

As Elizabeth carried her books home under her arm, bulging out one side of her circular like an unevenly inflated pudding-bag, the throbbing continued, and she turned into the less frequented streets with the certainty that she was going to disgrace herself with tears shed publicly. It had been a trying day, and in spite of all efforts her emotions broke loose before she could gain the shelter of home. Hurrying blindly to get the last block covered, she nearly dropped her books as she turned the corner.

"The Unknown" was coming toward her!

Her startled glance of recognition was so unexpectedly open that he thought that he had probably met her. He looked puzzled, but lifted his hat as she hurried past him, wiping the tears from her face with her free hand.

A boy called from across the street an instant later.

"Oh, Hugh, I'm coming over for some help on that chem. ex. to-night."

"All right," came the answer from "The Unknown," and mixed with Elizabeth's mortifying confusion was a quick thrill at knowing his name.

"Hugh!"

No opportunity had ever come to meet him or to find out what his name might be. Elizabeth was conscious that her life on the farm had made of her an impossible mate for this young man who, even among the young men of the city, was set apart by a peculiar grace and culture. She remembered the hat which had not merely been lifted from the head, but had been carried below the chin as he bowed distantly, and also the well-bred curiosity of his look. The rest of the leave-taking was made easier by having met him, and received his bow, and acquired the glorious, mystical knowledge of his name.

To round out the experiences of the winter, fate decreed that Mr. Farnshaw could not come for her, and the glitter of the inside of a railway coach, with its brass lamps, plush seats, and polished woods, was added to her experimental knowledge. Luther was somehow connected in her mind with the day's experiences and she wished devoutly that she could talk to him about the disappointment of leaving her school before the end of the term, and of this journey home on the train, and of Hugh. Yes, Elizabeth would have told Luther even of Hugh. Luther Hansen was to Elizabeth Farnshaw unchanged and unchangeable. The transformations of her own life did not call for any such transformations in him. He was Luther. It had been his mental processes which had won and now sustained her attachment for him. Their two minds had worked together as one mind while they had struggled with the innocent problems of their childhood days, and Elizabeth still felt incomplete without him. She had been less conscious of Luther's absence the first year than at any time since his going away, but in Topeka, and now that she was approaching the scene of their association together, Elizabeth wanted him with a depth of homesickness she had never felt before. It was hard to go back to the old battleground and not find him there. The prospects in store for her at home made her shrink. Elizabeth fell to wondering if any improvement in that home were possible. She had had them quite cheerfully in mind all winter, but now that the distance between her home and herself lessened rapidly a feeling of inadequacy came upon her, and the glitter of the wonderful coach in which she was riding was forgotten. Could she help? The only thing that was very clear to her was that much patience would be necessary. At Uncle Nathan's they had been gentle and loving and tolerant.

"Can I make them see it—and see how?" she asked herself so many times that the wheels beneath her took up the refrain.

"Gentle and loving and tolerant—gentle and loving and tolerant—gentle and loving and tolerant," they sang for miles as she sat with her young brow puckered into a deep frown.

The realities of life were thrust into the foreground the moment Elizabeth arrived, and for new reasons she missed Luther. Mr. Farnshaw resented the new circular.

"Is that th' damned fool kind of coat she was talkin' about?" he inquired as his daughter alighted from the farm wagon at the kitchen door that afternoon. "It ain't got no warmth," he added scornfully. "Th' ain' nothin' to it but looks, an' not much of that. What 'd y' you do with th' coat you had?"

The old heartsickening contention had begun.

"I've got it."

"Well, you see that you wear it and don't go makin' a fool out of yourself around here. I'd 'a' kept my money if I'd 'a' knowed it was goin' t' be put into a thing that'd swell up in th' wind like a balloon."

Mrs. Farnshaw saw the look that swept over Elizabeth's face and instinctively ranged herself on the side of the young girl. She saw with a woman's eyes the style in the garment and its importance in her daughter's appearance. When Elizabeth took it off her mother took it to the bedroom to put it away, remarking in a whisper that it made her look quite like a school-teacher ought to look. She was secretly glad that her daughter had it, since it was already paid for and she did not have to make it. It would be the most observed wrap in the schoolhouse the next Sunday if she could only persuade Elizabeth to go to meeting. The metal clasp had virtues all its own.

"I think it's ever so much more stuck-up than if it had buttons," she whispered.

The undertone rasped on Elizabeth's nerves. Aunt Susan never differed with Uncle Nate in undertones.

"Let's get supper, ma," she said, to shake herself from threatened despondency.

But though Elizabeth bustled energetically about the getting of that meal, the eating of it was not a very great success. Mr. Farnshaw discoursed upon the senselessness of prevailing styles, with the new cape plainly in mind, and Mrs. Farnshaw nudged her daughter's knee under the table whenever Elizabeth seemed inclined to defensive retorts.

When Mr. Farnshaw had taken the milk pails on his arm and repaired to the corral, however, Mrs. Farnshaw turned from a belated churning and administered the caution in words:

"Don't ever say anything back to your pa, Lizzie; he gets worse and worse all th' time."

Elizabeth considered the subject for some minutes. The wear and tear of the discords of her mother's life she knew were far more responsible for her mother's broken health than anything she did in the way of hard work. It seemed a good time to begin the reforms upon which her heart was set.

"Ma, I've been thinking about you a good deal this winter," she began slowly. "Something is wrong with us all." The girl thought again for a moment. Her mother watched her with sharp attention and waited. Reforms were not easy to discuss with her mother; they were very different, Elizabeth and her mother. Elizabeth hardly dared express her longing to reorganize their home. If only she could effect a reformation! Her heart had been set on it all winter. She knew now how people could live if only they understood how to do it. Her help here was needed. When she began to speak again it was very slowly, and with a careful consideration of the words she was using.

"We ought all of us to be different. We go along day after day hating our work, scolding and fretting at each other, and never really happy, any of us, and I've been wondering why?"

Her mother eyed her closely. Something of the girl's mood stirred a responsive chord.

"I've thought of it too," she said, "but I can't never tell why it is though, unless"—she spoke slowly and Elizabeth was encouraged—"unless it's because we don't never belong to ourselves. Now your pa wants t' run th' house, an' th' farm, an' you children, an' me, an' everything, an' I'm so tired, an' never have any help, that anybody'd be cross. Nobody ever pities me, though. Here, take this dasher an' finish this here churnin' for me."

Elizabeth took the dasher into her own hand and stood looking down meditatively at the cream gathered about the hole in the churn lid. The first sentence of her mother's remark struck her attention.

"Why can't folks belong to themselves?" she asked, letting the dasher rest while she churned mental problems of greater moment.

Mrs. Farnshaw looked up quickly. "Well, if you think you can marry an' belong t' yourself, just you try it," she replied.

"But, ma, if a man loved a woman couldn't she get him to leave her free? Now—"

Mrs. Farnshaw cut her short. "Love! Men don't know how to spell th' word. They get a woman, an' after she's got children they know she can't help herself. She's got t' stick to it 'cause she can't raise 'em alone an'—an' it don't make no difference whether he takes care of 'em or not—" Words failed the exasperated woman.

Elizabeth studied her mother with a new interest. She began to apply her mother's words to her own case. She knew that her mother had wanted her services this spring as much as her father, and remembered the letter calling her home.

"But that don't cover your case, ma. You love pa more than you do us children; you know you do, and we know that you do too."

Mrs. Farnshaw usually denied the most obvious thing if her protective instincts prompted her to do so, but her daughter had hit the bull's-eye so exactly that for the moment she had no defence ready. Elizabeth was encouraged by her mother's silence. Mrs. Farnshaw talked so much that it was not easy to get her attention. The young girl, glowing with the discoveries made in Aunt Susan's home, desired to get at the bottom of the causes of inharmony in her own and to reorganize it on a better basis. It looked as if she was to be granted a hearing upon her schemes.

"I don't care about him running over us so much," she said diplomatically, "but you let him run over you in the same way. Now isn't there some way to come at him and get him to see it. When we're alone you talk about him domineering over you, but when he's here you let him say anything he wants to and you never try to help yourself. Why don't you strike out on a new tack and say you won't do it when he makes unreasonable demands? Why don't you reason with him good-naturedly, if you think that's better, without crying, I mean, and then if he won't listen at all——"

"I don't know, Lizzie," the mother interposed slowly. "I sometimes think I will an' then when he's here something won't let me. It ain't what he says to you; it's—it's—something he does to you when he looks at you. I'm as weak as water when he looks at me. I don't know why. I guess it's because I've always give up—an'—an'—I can't tell why. A woman does just like a horse—there's more'n one kind of whippin' a man can give—an' she gets scared—an' minds. A man begins right from th' first t' tell her what to do an' she loves 'im and wants t' please 'im, an' before long she don't have her way no more'n a nigger."

Some of the truth of the statement came within the grasp of the daughter, who was looking across the idle churn with her mind fixed in singleness of purpose upon remedies, and yet she felt that there was some other element in the matter not yet accounted for. The hopeless tone of the older woman, however, goaded her young spirit into forgetting the caution necessary to dealing with the subject. Her blood fired with resentment that one life should be so crushed by another. It was her mother whose shoulders drooped with a burden too heavy for her to throw off.

"If you're sure of that, why don't you leave him? We children are old enough to support ourselves and——"

"Lizzie!"

Elizabeth had overshot the mark. Her mother was of another generation.

"But, ma," the girl protested quickly, "I don't say leave him if you can find any way of settling matters. Can't you have a talk with him—and get him to let you alone if you are willing to do the very best you can? That's the best way. Have you tried it?"

"No I hain't," the mother replied shortly; "it wouldn't do no good. But if my talkin' t' you is goin' t' make you say such things, I ain't goin't' talk t' you no more. When folks is married they're married, an' I don't believe in partin', nor talk of partin'."

"Well, I think maybe you are right, but if you and pa are going to live together you ought to try and have it out, and be a help to each other instead——" She broke off and thought a moment, "Now Aunt Susan and Uncle Nate——"

"Stop right there!" Mrs. Farnshaw cried, afire with jealousy. "That woman's brought more trouble into this house a'ready than She'll ever take out. Your pa's been rantin' about her all winter an'—an' he said you'd be pokin' her ways into our faces th' very day you got home. I 'spect she's th' one that got it into your head to talk of partin', most likely."

"Oh, now, ma, don't go on like that. You don't know about Aunt Susan. She's the last person in the world to ever suggest such a thing. That's just what I started out to say—they never have a word about anything. It's the loveliest home to live in, and I was just thinking that they must have found——"

"I said I didn't want t' hear nothin' more about them folks, an' I don't," Mrs. Farnshaw cried, caught on the other horn of the argument and even more deeply offended than before. "She'll most likely get all your love just like she got all your father's money last winter. You needn't mention her here no more. Th' school directors 'll be over to see you about fillin' out that term, to-night," Mrs. Farnshaw ended shortly, and turned the subject of conversation to other channels.

"Me? To fill out the term?" Elizabeth exclaimed in surprise. "What's gone wrong with the school here? I don't want a piece of a term, and I don't want, ever, to teach in this district where I've gone to school."

"Well, you're goin' to," was the brief reply. "Your pa an' me told 'em you'd take it."

"But how does it happen that the school is without a teacher?" Elizabeth asked with curiosity, ignoring the curt disposal of her services. She was accustomed to the peremptory measures of her parents.

"Jake Ransom run him out. He just piked off after he got his money order cashed last Saturday mornin'."

"And you expect me to take a school that's all upside down from that kind of handling—and me without any experience?"

"You'll take it an' You'll do your best, an' we won't hear no more about it. Here, ma, tie up this finger," Mr. Farnshaw said. He had just come in from the barn in time to hear his daughter's objections.

Later in the evening the directors came. Family pressure was strong, and with reluctance Elizabeth accepted the month yet to be taught. It would help with the interest, and that interest clouded the family sky to the horizon on every side now. Elizabeth was divided between a fear of inability to manage a demoralized school and the desire to add twenty-five dollars to the family revenue. In anticipation she saw the unruly boys supported and encouraged in insubordination by such as Sadie Crane, who was jealously ready to resent her—a former playmate—in the role of authority. And to put herself right with the governing board Elizabeth told the new director—Sadie's own father—her fears on that score.

"They have played with me and we have had the sort of quarrels all children have, Mr. Crane, and I may not be able to manage them."

Lon Crane was ignorant and uncouth, but big of heart, and the openness of the discussion pleased him.

"You jest take that school, young lady, an' I'll see that my end of th' thing's kep' up. I'll come over there an thrash every mother's son of 'em if I have t'. I'd kind o' like t' lick a few of 'em anyhow, an' if my young ones give any trouble, you jes' stop in on your way home an' I'll see that it don't never happen ag'in."

Half the battle was won; she let him hold her hand a moment at leave-taking while he reinforced his remarks by many repetitions.

"Don't you worry, Sis," he repeated as he backed out of the door; "you needn't be afraid; this here school board's at your back. We know it's a bad school, but, by ginger! we'll see that you're stood by. You jes' let me know if that there Jake Ransom tries any more monkeyshines and I'll tan his hide till It'll be good for shoe leather."

It occurred to Elizabeth that every word they were saying would be carried to the boy long before Monday morning and that a bad matter might from the very goodness of the teller's intentions be made worse.

"How old did you say the Ransom boy was?" she asked with concern.

"Fifteen—and a stinker if there ever was one."

"Then I think maybe I'll have a show. I thought he was older than that," she said diplomatically. "Now may I ask that what we have said be kept quiet? I would rather like to have a fair show with him—and I'll admit I'd like to be on good terms. Promise me that what we have said may be a secret even from your own family till after Monday."

Elizabeth went forward and spoke confidentially. The man liked her even better than before.

"I'll do it, by jing!" he exclaimed. "They'll be wantin' t' know soon's ever I get home what we done about it, an' fur once they'll suck their thumbs. Look out fur that boy, though; he's a black sheep that lives around in any flock; ain't got no home. I'll help if I'm needed."

Elizabeth listened closely to all that she heard her brothers say about Jake Ransom, trying to form some estimate of his character, and soon came to the conclusion that whatever else the boy might be, he was at least not to be classed as a sneak. In fact, Jake seemed to have rather a surprising faculty for announcing his policies before he began action.

When school opened Monday morning the bully was easily recognizable. Elizabeth had gone through all the stages of fright, of distaste for the job, and lastly of set determination to show this district that she could take that boy and not only conquer him but become friends with him. Instead of being nervous about the coming encounter, however, Elizabeth grew more steady and self-reliant as she felt his eyes upon her, and actually became interested in the small affairs preceding the ringing of the bell, and forgot him altogether till it was time to call the roll.

Jacob Ransom's name came last on the list. A titter ran around the room when it was called. The tone of reply was louder than the rest and defiant of manner. Elizabeth looked around the room with frank inquiry and the titter died down. She let her gaze wander quietly and naturally down the aisle to the seat of the bully and was surprised to find that she liked the boy.

Closing the roll book and following an instinct rather than a formulated plan, Elizabeth walked slowly down the room to his desk. A faint giggle behind her spoke of the hushed expectations of trouble.

"If I hear any more laughing in this room, I shall inquire into the matter," she said sternly, facing about beside Jake's desk.

The instant response to that remark gave her confidence in her own powers. 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!"



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 role, 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."