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

Elizabeth did not stand as usual and watch her lover drive toward home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He told me he had no higher desires on earth than to do things for me,"

she said, springing up and starting home with a song in her heart.

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth flicked her dress sleeve and laughed in merry derision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't he ask you what colour to put on it?" the mother asked, fishing the shovel out of the rubbish collected behind the rusty cook stove. "Now look here, Lizzie," she added with sudden suspicion, "don't you go an'

spoil him right t' begin with. You let him see that you want things your own way about th' house. If you set your foot down now, You'll have it easier all th' way through. That's where I made my mistake. I liked t'

give up t' your pa at first an' then--an' then he got t' thinkin' I didn't have no right t' want anything my way."

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

"I don't get my way about nothin'. I can't go t' town t' pick out a new dress that is bought with money I get from th' eggs, even. He'll manage most any way t' get off t' town so's t' keep me from knowin' he's goin', an' then make me send th' eggs an' b.u.t.ter by some one that's goin' by. He makes me stay home t' watch something if he has t' let me know he's goin'

his self. I don't own my house, nor my children, nor myself."

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

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

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

"I'll live real near you, ma, and you can come and see me every few days.

Don't let's spoil these last few weeks by worrying," Elizabeth said, her eyes opened to the longing expressed.

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

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

Cranes jealous?"

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

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

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

"Well, pa, how do you do?" Elizabeth said, turning toward him pleasantly.

She wanted to tell him of her engagement, now that she had told her mother, and she wanted to be at peace with him.

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

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