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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
Oh, how I did want a friend in these days. I wished at times that I
was a Catholic and could go to confession. Père Saint Palais was so
lovely, and his voice had that beguiling winsomeness that I longed to
have it comfort me, set me straight. For I was beginning to feel
there was a great hard wall between Dan and me. I tried my best to
love him. Oh, what was love!

Yet, some of the wives I knew had fallen into a settled routine, I was
going to say indifference. They kept their houses well, looked after
their babies. Their husbands went out in the evenings to smoke or
talk politics, trade, crops, and they ran into a neighbor's to gossip.
Why could not these things satisfy me? There were sudden impulses
that led me to kiss Dan, to almost beg that he would love me as he
had in those first few years, when I did not really want it. Perhaps I
had tired out his love. Mother was sure married people "settled."

I knew father was watching me very closely. I tried to hide my

thoughts with a girlish gayety. It occurred to me more than once
that I might have to choose between Dan and father, and in my
secret heart I knew I should go with father.

Polly was beginning to crawl out of her seclusion a little. I met her
one day at the bookstore where I was buying some articles for
father. I could not understand why she should color up so. She really
did look enchanting with the bit of lisse roll to her widow's cap inside
the bonnet, often called Marie Stuart. She had a "book muslin" collar
worked with black and little turn-over cuffs of the same material. Her
white skin and her wavy hair, her full red lips with their tempting
curves almost fascinated me. Did Dan ever kiss her? I wondered.
Could she take a man "straight to the devil?" I shuddered.

"You don't look well," she began in her mellifluous tones. "You are
thin and pale. Do you know I used to think you were quite a pretty
little girl, but I suppose we all do go off some," laughing. "I tell
mother I never want to be a horrid-looking old woman like granny.
Wasn't she frightful? So I hope I'll die somewhere along middle life,
when I can make a decent-looking corpse. And Norman's coming
home! Don't you suppose if Norman had stayed here you would
have married him instead of Dan?"

"I think Dan made me marry him," I gasped, as if the words were
wrested from me.

"He's awfully imperious, isn't he? I suppose you give in to his whims,
but the way to keep your charm over such a man is to deny him, to
dispute with him—up-and-down quarrels, and the making up is
delicious! Marriage is queer, isn't it, and the wrong people do get
together! Is the old couplet true—

"'There's a house 'tother side of the way,

And there they make Lucifer matches?'"

Another customer entered, and Polly turned to her. My parcel came.

I paid for it and went out.

If Norman had not gone away would I have married him?

I did not know anything about marriage in that innocent childhood.

Norman staying right along, and we growing nearer each other,
reading the same books, enjoying thrilling or tender verses, walks
and talks, and then—I knew there would not have been any
repulsion, that I should have been glad, glad with supreme joy, just
as Sophie had been.

I laid the package down on the table. Father was in his office, but I
could not go in. I went up to our room, took off my bonnet and
glanced around. Dan had been in and changed his clothes. Trousers
thrown over a chair, collar and stock on the bureau, shoes and a
soiled handkerchief on the floor. Dan had gone off somewhere. The
most curious repulsion came over me. I could not touch one article
to put them away. Oh, if I could run away somewhere—but there
was father. Keeping together "as long as ye both do live."
"Ruth!" called father.

It might have been minutes or hours, it seemed an endless while to

me.

"Did you get the paper? Come down. I want to make out some bills.
Dan's gone to Batavia for two days, left his good-by. Why, Ruth, you
look like a ghost, what is the matter?"

"Do I?" I tried to laugh, but my mouth was stiff, and I felt numb all
over. "I don't think it anything. I may have walked too fast. The sun
is hot."

He put me in the big rocking chair. I picked up a fan. I was cold

enough, Heaven knew, but I wanted to make some movement.

"Ruth, I think you are not well. You grow thinner all the time, and
you have no flesh to lose. We must have the doctor. Child, I have
been comforting myself that matters were better with you——"

His kindly eyes were full of solicitude.

I made a great effort. "If you mean with Dan," I said, "they are. He
is much pleasanter. I think he has gotten over the trouble about the
house, though sometimes I have wondered whether he might not
have it when I am gone."

"No," father replied, almost with set teeth. "You need not go for
that. I'm not sure but it would be better for you to deed it back to
me. Still if things go on, well——"

He hobbled to the closet and brought me some wine. That refreshed

me. Then he opened the package, made out some bills, straightened
his accounts when it was supper-time.

John came over in the evening, and father would keep him all night.
I felt quite as well as usual. When I went upstairs I laid the soiled
things away, hung up his trousers, but his vest fell to the floor, and
his knife and pencil rolled out with a bit of paper. I put the two back,
crumpled up the paper, then bethought myself it might be a
memorandum of something and spread it out, took it over to the
candle. It was a pencil scrawl.

"You will find me at Weesaukie's lodge at twilight." It was not Dan's

writing.

There was no name. He had taken Duke and gone in the buggy. Was
he to have a companion? It turned me sick and cold again. Polly's
glittering, mocking eyes and her insolent tones with their half veiled
gayety swept over me. Was it—would it be Polly? Oh, no, no, Dan
could not do such a thing as that!

For all Polly's brave show of mourning it was whispered that her
married life had not been altogether serene, and that she made little
ado about the loss of her grandeur.

All night something haunted me, a kind of impersonal agency,

treacherous, trying to lure me somewhere in darkness and
vagueness, while I had to make a great effort to hold back. And then
I was wandering over wild, dreary prairie land, at last coming out to
a strange black, silent lake. What splashed into it? The cry woke me,
and my heart beat with a great terror.

"John," I said to the young cousin, "I want you to go down to the
Morrison house this noon and take a note, but do not give it to any
one except Polly. If she isn't home, and she may not be, you say it is
all right, and be sure to bring the note back to me. Don't leave your
name or anything. Come back to-night."

It was a daring thing if Polly was home.

I busied myself about household duties, and in the afternoon a

neighbor came in with her two little ones. What made every one so
anxious to know how much fortune Norman would have? Still I was
glad of the break, for father had gone out to look after the men. The
weather was fine and he was anxious to get in some of the crops.
Then he took a rest in his easy chair.

I walked down the street a short distance. John came hurrying along
whistling, but stopped, thrust his hand in his pocket.

"She wasn't home, Cousin Ruth. The woman wanted the note, but I
wouldn't give it to her. She told me to come on Friday."

"Yes," I returned breathlessly. "Do not mention it to father," and I

took the missive.

Then Polly was away as well!

Dan came home late Friday night, good natured, bustling, and
announced that he must start early the next morning for Galena on
some important business. He hoped I had not missed him much. He
was sorry to go away at this busy season, but he would make it all
right with father. Indeed, he began to think with so much business
of his own they would really need a regular overseer.

"Now if that Gaynor boy was four or five years older, he might
come."

I was thunderstruck. "I thought you did not like him," I half faltered.

"I don't, but your father seems to like him."

The tone was rather sarcastic. I made no reply. I was glad he did not
proffer me so much as a kiss. In five minutes he was asleep.

So to Galena he went the next morning after a brief colloquy with

father.

"I'd like to know what's got into Dan Hayne," father said, almost
angrily. "I s'pose he's had a streak of luck somewhere, he's gay as a
lark, but he is sober enough, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't been off
on a carouse. I suppose it is all right between you?" studying me
sharply.

"It was all pleasant, if that is what you mean."

He nodded, but did not look satisfied.

"I'll have to hunt up Jake Esden—and I suppose he will be too busy

to lend a hand. This kind of weather can't last. If I wasn't such a
battered old hulk!"

I clasped my arms around his neck, but I did not sigh nor sob,
though both rose in my heart. Whatever came it would be we two.

"We'll have a week to ourselves anyhow," he said, in a gratified

tone.

A week in which to be glad that the husband of one's life would be

away. What a bitter travesty it was. But this time Polly was home,
making preparations to go to Vincennes for quite a stay.
 CHAPTER XVIII
DAN
I was all alone that August afternoon. It was hot out on the porch
and I took my sewing inside. I liked to sew when anything perplexed
me. There seems a quiet kind of diversion in the effort one has to
make, which is not much of an effort, after all. Father had gone
down to the warehouse to see about loading one of the boats. One
of the men was with him, though he had learned to get about quite
comfortably.

I heard a step on the walk. Dan's week was up and he might be

home any day. It had been a pleasant and busy week, and it seemed
as if most of the people I had ever known had visited me. There was
my old friend, Mrs. Chadwick, who had come for her brother. He was
rather ailing now, and it was thought a change would benefit him, so
she would take him home with her. She was still sweet and charming
and intelligent and we had a pleasant visit. Sophie came up with the
four children, and we enjoyed a merry, romping time. Of course, she
couldn't let Polly alone, but she admitted the matter might have
worn itself out, and now she was preparing to take quite a journey.
"Joy go with her," declared Sophie.

Ben had returned, a fine, fresh-looking fellow, tall and with a strong
frame, rather thin now, but he was full of ambition. He had been
doing very well, and oh, what joy it would be to see Norman, the
most splendid fellow in the world. Any day he might arrive.
Chris, too, was full of delight. I had no time to brood over my own
infelicities.

No one had come yet to-day. It was too warm for womenkind to go
visiting even with the prospect of a supper in which they had had no
hand.

So when I heard the step I did not stir, neither did I take the next
stitch, but just listened for the voice. Chris had a way of beginning
his conversation on the lowest step and talking all the way along. It
must be Ben, stopping to pet the cat. Then I turned, but could not
see who was in the hall, rose, and took a step forward, and then we
stood face to face with all the years between. I was no longer a little
girl, and this was a fine, resolute man, clear eyed, the strong
features toned down by the tenderness and sympathy the years had
demanded of him, a face one could trust to the death—Norman
Hayne in his ripe manhood.

There came to me in that one instant a flash of awful knowledge

that I had no right to. I swayed uncertainly. I put out my hand and
all went dark before my eyes.

"Oh, Little Girl! Little Girl!"

The longing sweetness of the voice pierced my very soul, but I went
plunging down some deep abyss. Was I really dying?

When I came to, Jolette and father and a neighbor stood there
beside Norman.

"What was the matter?" I asked. "Why, I never fainted in my life."

"Once is always the first time," said Mrs. Miller, sententiously.

Father was pale with fright, and shook as if with an ague, while his
eyes transfixed mine.
"I came upon her too suddenly," Norman explained. "I was so
impatient, and I could not find any one."

"She has not been well of late," exclaimed father.

"And it has been a hot afternoon. Oh, how did you stand it?" and I
caught his hand.

"I was in a tolerably cool place. There is a breeze coming up, and
the sun has gone under a cloud."

"Yes. I think we might take her out on the porch," said Mrs. Miller.
"Jolette, you carry the big rocking chair."

"I am all right," and I gave a tremulous little laugh. "Did I frighten
you very much?"

"It was a pretty severe faint," Norman replied, still looking anxiously
at me.

Mrs. Miller would lead me, though I could walk very well, and only
felt a little shaky.

The wind came up in a fluttering sort of gale, as if it hardly knew

whether to behave at its best or worst. A drift of mauve and dun
began to settle in level lines along the west, making a bar across the
sun. Other patches of white and pale gray chased each other about,
but there was no sign of shower.

"When did you get in?" asked father.

"About noon. I went straight to mother. Chris was home. Oh, you
can't think how glad I am to be here. It has been a long exile from
the many one loves. And yet I ought not complain. I have been
needed every day of the time. But it seemed so strange at the first
glance to have every one grown up, although, of course, I knew
none of us stood still," and he laughed with a cheerful, musical
sound. It was like a mellow echo of Dan's. And he was a refined and
noble copy of his elder brother, a gentleman in tone, accent, the turn
of the head, the glance of the eye, the sort of atmosphere that
surrounded him. I thought I would like to have him more distinct in
personality.

He remained to supper, but went immediately after. He wrung

father's hand until the pressure made him wince, but he said a
simple good-night to me, and I was thankful. I could not have borne
the clasp of his hand.

There was great rejoicing, to be sure. We were very neighborly in

those days, and joy as well as sorrow stirred all hearts. Then it was
something to have been nearly all over Europe, to understand
several foreign languages, to have seen kings and queens.

A few days after Dan came home. He gave me a careless greeting,

and began to talk at once about Norman.

"I have not seen much of him," I said. "He and father went driving
yesterday, and he was surprised at what he called the advancement
of the prairies."

"Oh, I suppose he carries his head very high. And I dare say he
came in for a big fortune. You won't see much of him here, I can tell
you. We're not half grand enough."

"Your mother is a very happy woman. I went down there yesterday,

while the men were out. I had been so busy with various matters.
You must go and see her."

He nodded, and busied himself with some papers he was taking out
of a drawer.

That was all our greeting after a week's absence. I had a kind of
stunned feeling, and did not really care for endearments, though
sometimes Dan was very lavish of them. I had not yet grown used
to this revelation of myself. I must learn to love my husband, it was
my only safeguard. Otherwise I should be a miserable, sinful
woman. For I realized now how I had loved Norman Hayne through
these years of my childhood, and how I could love him now, how he
would fill the spaces in my heart that had never been satisfied. The
pain and longing I had never understood before.

There was another aspect to the case. Father's influence had its
share in the step I realized. He had not thought then he could live
very long, and it was his dear love for me that longed to see me safe
in some one's hands. He suffered enough in knowing that my
husband had grown careless, he must never guess that I could have
given my supreme affection to another and been happy, blessed
beyond measure.

Why had Dan married me?

He could not have been so much in love with an unformed child,

though I think I did amuse him with my petulance and protests. He
loved to conquer anything. He could subdue the most fractious horse
and do more with an obstinate mule than any one else. He really
enjoyed my resistance. But was there any thought that at father's
death I should be left with quite a fortune? There was his anger
about the house, his objections to young John Gaynor. Yet now they
seemed matters almost of indifference to him.

But there was my duty and my safety. Father was a very upright
man and used to clear distinctions, and I knew I had inherited them.
I was a wife and I had no right to consider what my life might have
been with any other man, to brood over what I had missed.

It seemed truly as if Norman helped me. Had I done or said

anything in that moment of the lapsing of consciousness? He came
only when father was around. Oh, what talks there were out on the
porch, to which I listened enchanted, yet I sat a little by myself, or
with father's arm around me. Mrs. Hayne gathered the family
together, and father went along. Four sweet, merry grandchildren,
Sophie bright, commonplace to be sure, but a most excellent wife
and mother. We talked of the one who "was not," of the night I had
come a Little Girl, of the many delightful old things.

Dan was there, but I noted a curious restlessness about him, as if he

was bored, and an abstraction. His thoughts certainly were
elsewhere, yet he told droll stories and anecdotes and chaffed
Norman. When we made ready to return Ben said he would go
along, he had an errand uptown. We were old enough to divide our
city in sections already.

"Ben—if you'll just see my folks safe home," he said, "I'll be mightily
obliged to you. I ought to see some one on business, and I know I
can catch him to-night."

"Yes," assented Ben, and then Chris said he would go, too. Norman
was petting and playing with little Ruth.

Dan walked a short distance with us and then turned off with a
cheerful good-night. But it was past midnight when he returned.

It seemed so strange to walk on the edge of some suspected but

unknown danger, as if the ground was mined somewhere along the
way. I was outwardly cheerful, I sang about the house, I tried to
answer blithely, I cooked the things Dan liked, I begged him to come
home early. I indulged in little caressing ways, such as he used to
fairly extort years before. I put on whatever semblance of love I
could use without being effusive. It did not warm him at all, and he
had been so easily roused. What was this stone that I surged
against?

"Ruth," father said one morning, "what is Dan about, has he told you
of any new plans?"

"No," I answered in a kind of surprise.

"He is putting money in the copper mines up at Lake Superior. He
has sold that Lake Street property, at a sacrifice, I think, and he
asked me for a settlement. He wants to go up to the copper fields
himself."

"No, I have heard nothing about it."

Father came nearer and took both of my hands.

"Ruth, you cannot go up there, even with your husband," he

exclaimed solemnly.

"He has not asked me. I do not think he would want me." Yet I
shuddered at the prospect.

"One cannot fathom him any more. Of course, he was very plausible
and all that, considering my interest, and saying he had not time to
attend to it, that he might be away for months, and that now I was
so much improved a good overseer would answer my purpose. But I
say again he shall not take you. I would as soon hand you over to a
pack of ravening wolves! Oh, my darling, I have no one in the world
but you, a broken, disabled, lonely old man."

He pressed me to his heart, and I felt the sob there. The strong
arms about me gave me inexpressible comfort.

"You need not fear," I returned. "He shall not even drag me away."

"He will not try force. He may try fraud. I distrust him. He used to be
so frank and outspoken. Will you be careful? Do not be trapped into
anything, for he is deep as the sea. It may be all this copper
business. I have seen men go mad about speculation before, when
they could dance a hornpipe standing on their heads, their brains
were so befuddled. It is not drink, but some curious influence I
cannot divine."
"I shall stay with you always. It was one of the conditions of my
marriage. It was as solemn a promise as anything else."

"Thank God, my darling."

There certainly was what I should call an intense change in Dan, not
any superficial emotion. He sometimes sat with his lips compressed,
and his brow in a frown, then it would suddenly lighten in such a
wonderful glow, an absolute radiance. What was he thinking of?

Once, when I saw it, I went over and kissed him in a kind of
fascinated mood.

"Don't!" He pushed me away roughly.

A month before I would have cried, and felt stabbed to the heart.
Now I walked quietly away.

What weeks they were, not many of them, but the days seemed
shodden with lead, the sun hung high in the heavens, as if loth to
leave her throne.

I stayed mostly at home, helping father to go over accounts. I

remember the last week. Norman was not in at all.

Was I longing for him? Was life drearier without him? Well, if I was
as weak as that then I must make a new and greater effort. But it
was fighting with no line of defence behind me, no husband to
stretch out a hand.

Dan came in awhile before noon one day and began to pack a valise.
He had taken away some of his belongings before. I had been
mending a few articles rather too bulky to be carried downstairs.

"I am going away," he announced, "up to Lake Superior. The Prairie

Bird starts this afternoon."
"Oh, Dan!" What should I say? "How long are you likely to stay?"
and I tried to make my voice solicitous.

There was no answer for a moment or two. Then he turned around

in a fierce fashion, and his eyes were black as night.

"I may as well tell you," he began in a desperate tone, "that I am

not coming back at all."

I glanced up at him. I knew the color went out of my face. I was so

utterly amazed.

"You'll hear the story, but I may as well have the gratification of
telling you." His voice had a peculiar depth, and his face was set
with some tremendous emotion. "I am going with the woman I love,
and who loves me with a passion you never could know if you lived
a hundred years! I should have married her in the beginning, but I
was a blind, idiotic fool, and she had a temper. We were never sure
of each other. She made a pretence of caring for this or that one
when I ought to have wrung the secret out of her heart and
mastered her once for all. A woman like that gives royally when she
is compelled. You have to extort it out of her, but the drop of honey
is worth it all. The old man who took her in hand never found the
way to the heart of the flower. That was saved for me. And it is a
delicious draught. We are going away together—we shall never come
back. What people say is of no importance to us."

"It is Polly Morrison," I gasped. "Oh, Dan, if you loved her, then why
did you marry me?" I cried, wounded to the heart's core.

"Because I was a fool. She had gone out of my life, and I said she
could not have loved me as she professed. And you were a silly little
white kitten, never quite sure whether you would jump on my knee
or not, so I made you. But what is there to you? Some cold Puritan
blood, some petty sort of tenderness that has no fire in it—nothing
to kindle a man to the height of rapture. I tired of you even before
she came, and then my life was set aflame. She is the one woman
for me. A month, even, with her would outweigh any other woman
on the face of the earth."

I sprang up. "Dan, your solemn promise!" At that moment I hated to

be thrust aside for Polly Morrison. "You were not compelled to marry
me. You—you did love me then—a little."

He laughed scornfully. "You have just hit it—a little. A man

sometimes takes second best, more fool he! You might have done if
Polly with all her witchery had not crossed my path. Or it might have
been some one else. There is no need of making a fuss now. I have
not wasted any of your patrimony. You can hand it all over to John
Gaynor if you like, and you and your father can maunder on through
life. And I shall have a glowing, thrilling, absorbing atmosphere, in
which one really lives. No, don't come near me—"

The bed had stood between us as I sat by the window. Perhaps I

had unconsciously stepped forward. I had a wild idea that I must
plead, that I must exert all my wifely powers to keep him from
committing this dreadful sin.

"Don't come near me," he continued. "We will say good-by with this
space between us and no tomfoolery. Perhaps I was idiotic to come
and tell you this, but I wanted you to know how the other woman
was loved, how a man loves when a woman fills every thought of his
soul. There—you and your father are well rid of me!"

He picked up his valise and strode out of the room, down the stairs.
I dropped on the bed. I did not faint or cry. I could hardly be any
more deserted than I had been the last two months. A deserted
wife! A husband by all of God's sacred ordinances who gloried in his
shameful love for another woman!

It stunned me. One moment it seemed incredible, then his voice

sounded clear and vibrant, as if he was still in the room. Had we
parted for all time? A hundred little tendernesses rushed over me.
The laughing, teasing eyes that could hold so much meaning looked
into mine. Oh, he must have loved me once and I had tried to love
him, yes, sometimes I really had, but it was a child's love.

"Ain't any one comin' to dinner, Mis' Hayne?" A peremptory voice

rang up the stairway.

I rose, bathed my face, although there were no tears to wash away,

and went down.

"Mr. Hayne gone away?" inquired Jolette.

"Yes," I answered briefly.

"An' ye'r father out! I declar' to man ther' ain't much sense roastin'
ye'sself on a hot day an' no one to come an' eat the wittles!"

I glanced over the table. The boiled dinner with one or two side
dishes filled me with disgust, and yet I thought how Dan would have
enjoyed it. He was hearty in everything. He had a big frame to take
care of and he did not stint it.

The wagon drove up and Sim helped father out. So I waited until he
was ready to come.

"The Prairie Bird starts out at two. Has Dan been home?"

"Yes, and gone," I made answer briefly.

He glanced sharply at me. Jolette was too near for any private
comment.

"I saw him down by the elevator. Well, I hope he isn't on a wild-
goose chase that will bring down only a few feathers. Wentworth
thinks he's years too early, but they may find gold up there as well
as in California, and copper may pan out in a valuable way. But I
think he was foolish putting so many eggs in one basket. He's sold
Duke to Baubein."
"He cared more for Chita."

"There's big money in Duke. He's a splendid trotter."

I tried to eat. Father was hungry, and just as the pie came on Ben
entered and had some dessert, and there followed a long talk with
father, who then settled himself in an easy chair for his nap.

Had Dan really told the truth? Was Polly to be his companion? How
would it come out? At all events, I would keep my own counsel.

It had been a pretty warm day until about five, when some
suspicious clouds went scurrying across the sky, and a blast of wind
seemed to come off of an iceberg. We shut down the windows, the
storm rushed up so quickly. Then the wind fell. In a little while there
was such a peculiar light, not sunset, it obscured the sun even, a
strange yellow glow over everything, darkening and yet not making
dark. The air was now very still. Men went hurrying homeward.

"There'll be a big storm," one and another said when they came
within hearing. I thought of the two out on the lake and how Dan
disliked the water.

There had been a curious talk about the end of the world coming.
Jolette was afraid, and up in her room prayed mightily.

"It is strange," father said over and over again, and he watched me
closely.

After a while it grew paler and that gave everything an unearthly

glow. Yet it looked beautiful. It was nothing like sunset, I had never
seen such a light before. The distant cornfields were simply
magnificent. Trees looked as if they were painted on a background,
every branch and twig were so distinctly outlined.

Then by slow degrees it faded, growing into evening gradually.

There had been no sunset, but night was coming on quietly and the
sky was a smooth gray.

Ben rushed in breathless.

"Hasn't it all been queer?" he exclaimed. "Mother was sure the end
of the world was here. They've been preaching it a good deal to the
eastward. Norme insisted I should come up and stay all night with
you." How good the old name sounded! "He could manage mother
better. I never saw her so frightened. Were you?"

"Well—the world is going to be destroyed by fire, but it wasn't hot

enough to melt the fervent elements, so I thought we were safe,"
replied father jocosely.

Then they began about the prophecies, and how in the first century
they thought Christ would come the second time before St. John
died. Father had been quite a great Bible reader of late years. We
spoke of Dan, too, and hoped he would reach his destination safely.
Evidently Ben nor mother had any idea he had gone to stay, or that
there was anything wrong. I almost persuaded myself I had
dreamed that cruel, brutal talk. It had been interspersed with not a
little profanity. I hated swearing.

We went to bed at length. I felt so sore and sad then, with all my life
in ruins, that I cried softly on my pillow. A deserted wife! And when
the story came out, how hard all the gossip would be to hear!

The Yankee clock in the hall rattled off its hours. It always struck as
if it might lose a second of time between the strokes. Twelve! The
eerie hour. What if a ghost came to me! Oh, what was that!

An awful roar of something coming nearer and nearer and then

breaking into a thousand shrieks. I sprang out of bed and screamed.

Father called to me, "Come in here, Ruth," and I ran, frightened

almost out of life.
I suppose there had been such tempests before. I know there have
been since. Ben came in wrapped in a blanket and lighted some
candles, then sat on the foot of father's bed. It was something
terrific. The house rocked, we heard the trees crash down, the cries
of the animals and the frightened poultry, and that mighty roar and
swirl as if the destruction of the world had begun. We were so near
the lake that we guessed what an ocean tempest must be with the
great waves pounding up, fighting each other like angry armies.

Then it began to rain. A great fierce deluge, this way and that,
whirling, beating, changing about, thrashing, as if it meant to crush
out life, the world, everything. Oh, what torrents! It stamped on the
ground in its rage. It beat on the roof as if it meant to crush it in,
and was all the uglier for being foiled.

I snuggled up to father and pressed my cheek against his. His arm

was around me. We two, henceforth, always. And what of the other
two? I felt the boat must have put in somewhere. It should have
been a magnificent night with the moon just past the full. I thought
of the ride on Chita in the harvest moonlight. Other tender
remembrances came back to me, and from the depths of my soul I
cried to God for their safety, cried mightily, as if my own soul was at
stake.

It was two before the storm began to abate at all, then it rained
steadily, and the wind raged, but not so fiercely, the lake roared like
a great booming cannon, but the house had stood the shock and we
were safe. It had been so good to have Ben. Yet it was curious we
had none of us once spoken Dan's name, though I think it was deep
in our hearts.

The skies were still thick in the morning, as if layer after layer had to
roll away before it could clear. The wind had mostly ceased, and the
rain held up now and then and came in gusts again.
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