Mrs. Farnshaw began to be desperate.

"Folks has talked an' talked," she said, "an' I let 'em, because I thought when you come home for th' weddin' it'd put a stop t' their tongues.

You've been down here, an' you don't know how hard it's been."

Elizabeth had listened in a distressed silence and studied Susan Hornby's face for signs of a.s.sistance.

"I guess they haven't talked----" she began at length, and then stopped short at something in Aunt Susan's eye which confirmed her mother's words.

"Oh, yes, they have," her mother hastened to say. "They say you ain't got no proper pride, an' they say you've got too stuck up t' live to home any longer, now that you're goin' t' marry rich, an' they say I can't make your things good enough for you t' be married in, an'----"

Mrs. Farnshaw had voiced her greatest grievance--her neighbours criticised her. She broke into such real weeping that it was impossible not to be moved by it.

Forgetting her policy of silence, Elizabeth argued and explained. Talking to her mother, but keeping her eyes glued on Aunt Susan's, she went into details about the difficulty at home.

"You know pa 'll find some excuse to strike me as soon as I get there,"

she concluded. She had a painful sense of weakness and inadequacy in the presence of her mother's determination. Her own worries seemed so trivial in the presence of her mother's sorrow.

"E won't, I tell you," Mrs. Farnshaw repeated for the twentieth time.

"E'll let you alone if you do th' right thing. We love our children--if th' neighbours don't think so," she wailed.

As she talked, however, she kept a shrewd eye on her daughter and soon saw that Elizabeth's eyes turned to those of Aunt Susan. It was not enough for this Hornby woman to be neutral; Mrs. Farnshaw decided to enlist her.

"If you had a girl you'd want 'er t' be married in your own house, I know," she said, leaning forward eagerly. "Suppose you only had th'

one----" She saw the quick tears gathering. "Did you ever have a little girl?" she asked.

Susan Hornby's emotions mastered her. She made no attempt to reply.

"Then tell 'er t' come home for just two more days," she said quickly. "I don't ask for no more than that. Just long enough to put an end t' this talk. I don't never 'spect t' have 'er after that, but----"

She sprang to her feet and, crossing the room, dragged Elizabeth to her feet also.

"I've got t' have you, Lizzie, an' that's all th' is about it!" They looked at each other a long time. Elizabeth weakened.

What could the girl do? Against her instincts, against her better judgment, against her will, she consented.

"See to it, then, that no new thing comes up to disgrace us," she said, stepping back to avoid the compelling touch of the hand that clutched at her sleeve, still looking across despairingly at Aunt Susan.

All help had been taken from that quarter. Bewildered, torn between her comprehension of mother love and a real knowledge of this particular case, Susan Hornby fumbled with the hem of her ap.r.o.n and did not look up.

Elizabeth, alone and without support, was easily victimized.

"I'll go," she said briefly.

So the peaceful summer ended for Elizabeth Farnshaw with her promise to go home. She hated to go, but the phrasing of her mother's plea, "just two more days," helped to sustain her. It had been a happy summer, two days would not be long, and then would come John and the new home.

There had been many reasons for the happiness of Elizabeth's last weeks of girlhood. The days had been full of pleasant work, and John had taken regular and masterful possession of her evenings. He came always such a picture of natty cleanliness and taste that it was a joy to be the object of his wooing. When John had found that Elizabeth was not in love with Luther, as she had been reported to be, but accorded the old grounds of affection to him, he had spread himself comfortably in Luther's presence and drawn him into conversation whenever it could be done. In addition to a desire to set his well-polished boots in strong contrast against those of busy, un.o.bserving Luther, the only dressing of which was an occasional soaking in oil to keep them from cracking, John Hunter had been half forced to like honest, kindly Luther Hansen. Luther was not a man to arouse antagonisms. He a.s.sumed his natural role with Elizabeth even before her fiance and let the ground of their cordiality and friendship rest on such sensible basis that they were accepted as a matter of course.

John Hunter had been restless and half angry when he had first come home from Mitch.e.l.l County--a thing he had not let Elizabeth see--but his feelings had been soothed and delighted by the display of her preference for him on his return. A new buggy had been purchased, and it was John Hunter's pride.

Elizabeth was unconscious of any rivalry. The new buggy was a great acquisition. It was the first to appear in that part of the country. She felt favoured to have it at her service, but the crown of all her felicity had been John Hunter's adoration, which had been poured at her feet without stint. If she wished to go anywhere, she had but to mention it.

The relations of the early summer had been reestablished. He talked of the new land, and of the cattle to be placed on it in two or three years, when the calves he was buying would be grown. The lots in which he had held an equity since his father's death had been sold before his mother's departure from the old home, and twenty-five calves had been picked up from the surrounding farmers with the money thus secured. Every evening John drove to some farm to look for young cattle, and Elizabeth accompanied him. Cash had been paid for the Western land, and at the end of the summer most of the money that had been received from the estate had been invested.

As they drove from farm to farm, discussing prices; sheds, feed, and the wintering of stock, the girl's heart swelled with grat.i.tude that her lines had fallen in such well-provided places. The pinch of poverty was to be lifted from her life.

More than the plenty, Elizabeth prized the peace which seemed to be drifting in her direction.

Every day since John Hunter's return had been a happy day. John consulted her judgment and her wishes, and it was done with that air of comradeship which was the most sought-for thing in Elizabeth Farnshaw's life. All her lonely days she had longed for it, and in all her girlish dreams it had been the prime factor. She had obtained glimpses of it in Susan Hornby's home, and now, she told herself joyfully, it was to be a permanent feature of her future life.

With Mrs. Farnshaw's advent a series of unpleasant things began to manifest. John was glad that the marriage was to take place in Elizabeth's own home. Because of their engagement, he had heard little of the gossip about her, but it had been enough to make him suspect more and wish her well out of it. If now she would go home it would make the whole thing look right and stop the reports.

John Hunter was distinctly a man of moods and reflected the conditions in which he happened for the moment to find himself. When he came to see Elizabeth the night after her mother had been to see her, he was pleased that she was to go home the next day, but he instantly partook of the discontent she showed. He took her to his mother's house for a short stay, but both were heavy of spirits and John was actually depressed. Elizabeth was almost abnormally sensitive to the att.i.tude a.s.sumed toward her, and had she been shrewd she would never have carried any doubts of her own efficiency or judgment to her lover, but she was as open as a little child. John left her at the little gate and drove away so promptly that the girl's lip quivered as she turned in the dark to go to the house.

Elizabeth found Luther seated on the low doorstep. The shadow of the house prevented her from seeing him till she was almost upon him.

"Of all things! I never thought of you being here," she exclaimed, thinking of the kiss she had just received not three rods distant.

Luther laughed sheepishly.

"I hadn't intended t' see your good-nights," he said honestly, "but I'd 'a' made a worse mess of it by runnin' than I did by settin' still.

Anyhow, you're goin' t' be married in three days, an' it needn't make no difference. I've been a thinkin' about you an' I waited up t' talk." He made room on the step for her to sit beside him.

"Thinking about me?"

"Yes. Mrs. Hornby says your mother was here to-day. She's kind of worried about it--you goin' home, I mean. I don't know about that--I hope It'll be all right. Try an' make it right, Lizzie. Th' Hunters go a good deal on looks."

Elizabeth was silent.

Luther felt it and interpreted her silence rightly.

"Is that something I'm not to talk about, Lizzie?" he asked.

The question hurt worse than the statement.

"I--I--don't know why you ask me such a thing, Luther," she faltered.

Luther arose. He was not to be offended, nor would he put away what he had waited to say.

"I only wanted to say that--well, do what th' folks ask of you, Lizzie.

You're only home for a couple of days an'--an'"--after a long pause--"an'

it won't hurt n.o.body."

Elizabeth got up slowly.

"Good-night, Luther," she said.

She wanted to offer him her hand; she was sure she was hurting him, but she could not talk to him on this point; the very truth of his suspicious that the Hunter estimate of her might be affected by scandal made of it a sore point. Elizabeth Farnshaw would be loyal to mutual relations, even where Luther's feelings were concerned.