"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, pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sured 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.

CHAPTER V

REACHING HUNGRY HANDS TOWARD A SYMBOL