"Well, then," he said, as he drew her to him, "you are
going to marry me."
The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled
back and the sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into
the kitchen. The teakettle, too, on the stove behind
them, threw up its lid and burst into a thunder of bubbles.
The next time they tried the door it yielded, Mrs. McGuire
having made a second barefoot journey.
When they came up from the little kitchen, the light
ineffable was shining in their faces, but Mrs. McGuire
called them back to earth by remarking dryly:
"It's just as well I wasn't parchin' for that drink."
CHAPTER XXVI
THE THANKSGIVING
The prairie lay sere and brown like a piece of faded
tapestry beneath the November sun that, peering through
the dust-laden air, seemed old and worn with his efforts
to warm the poor old faded earth.
The grain had all been cut and gathered into stacks that
had dotted the fields, two by two, like comfortable
married couples, and these in turn had changed into
billowy piles of yellow straw, through which herds of
cattle foraged, giving a touch of life and colour to the
unending colourless landscape. The trees stood naked and
bare. The gardens where once the corn waved and the
hollyhocks flaunted their brazen beauty, now lay a tangled
litter of stalks, waiting the thrifty farmer's torch to
clear them away before the snow came. The earth had
yielded of her fruits and now rested from her labour,
worn and spent, taking no thought of comeliness, but
waiting in decrepit indifference for her friend, the
North Wind, to bring down the swirling snow to hide her
scars and heal her unloveliness with its kindly white
mantle.
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