Chapter 4. A Cultured Man

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_ 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!"

[Illustration: "'NOW LOOK HERE, LIZZIE, ... YOUR PA EXPECTS IT'"]

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. _

Read next: Chapter 5. Reaching Hungry Hands Toward A Symbol

Read previous: Chapter 3. Reforms Not Easy To Discuss

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