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“Wait till you see Cyene Church. Oh, it’s a daisy snarl!”

“I wish you’d tell me about it.”

“Oh, it’s quiet now. The calmness of death,” said Herman. “Well, you see, it came this way. The church is made up of Baptists and Methodists, and the Methodists wanted an organ, because, you understand, father was the head centre, and Mattie is the only girl among the Methodists who can play. The old man has got a head like a mule. He can’t be switched off, once he makes up his mind. Deacon Marsden, he don’t believe in anything above tuning-forks, and he’s tighter’n the bark on a bulldog. He stood out like a sore thumb, and Dad wouldn’t give an inch.

“You see, they held meetings every other Sunday. So Dad worked up the organ business and got one, and then locked it up when the Baptists held their services. Things went from bad to worse. They didn’t speak as they passed by–that is, the old folks; we young folks didn’t care a continental whether school kept or not. Well, upshot is, the church died out. The wind blew the horse-sheds down, and there they lie–and the church is standing there empty as an–old boot–and–Say, Stacey–by Jinks!–are you a Baptist?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Peter! ain’t that lovely!” He chuckled shamelessly, and went off to sleep without another word.

II

Herman was still sleeping when Stacey rose and dressed and went down to breakfast. Mrs. Mills defended Herman against the charge of laziness: “He’s probably been out late all the week.”

Stacey found Mott in the county court-house, and a perfunctory examination soon put him in possession of a certificate. There was no question of his attainments.

Herman met him at dinner-time.

“Well, elder, I’m going down to get a rig to go out home in. It’s colder’n a blue whetstone, so put on all the clothes you’ve got. Gimme your check, and I’ll get your traps. Have you seen Mott?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, everything’s all fixed.”

He turned up about three o’clock, seated on the spring seat of a lumber wagon beside a woman, who drove the powerful team. Whether she was young or old could not be told through her wraps. She wore a cap and a thick, faded cloak.

Mrs. Mills hurried to the door. “Why, Mattie Allen! What you doin’ out such a day as this? Come in here instanter!”

“Can’t stop!” called a clear, boyish voice. “Too late!”

“Well, land o’ stars, you’ll freeze!”

When Wallace reached the wagon side, Herman said, “My sister, Stacey.”

The girl slipped her strong, brown hand out of her huge glove and gave him a friendly grip. “Get right in,” she said. “Herman, you’re going to stand up behind.”

Herman appealed to Mrs. Mills for sympathy. “This is what comes of having plebeian connections.”

“Oh, dry up,” laughed the girl, “or I’ll make you drive.”

Stacey scrambled in awkwardly beside her. She was not at all embarrassed, apparently.

“Tuck yourself in tight. It’s mighty cold on the prairie.”

“Why didn’t you come down with the baroosh?” grumbled Herman.

“Well, the corn was contracted for, and father wasn’t able to come–he had another attack of neuralgia last night, after he got the corn loaded, so I had to come.”

“Sha’n’t I drive for you?” asked Wallace.

“No, thank you. You’ll have all you can do to keep from freezing.” She studied his thin coat and worn gloves with keen glance. He could see only her pink cheeks, strong nose, and dark, smiling eyes.

It was one of those terrible Illinois days when the temperature drops suddenly to zero, and the churned mud of the highways hardens into scoriac rock, which cripples the horses and sends the heavy wagons booming and thundering along like mad things. The wind was keen as a saw-bladed sword, and smote incessantly. The desolate sky was one thick, impenetrable mass of swiftly flying clouds.

When they swung out upon the long pike leading due north, Wallace drew his breath with a gasp, and bent his head to the wind.