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Again the weakness and the blackness came stealing over her; she sank down on the doorstep.

“O God, what have I done!” she wailed.

The hens returned to their search for bugs; but the big collie stayed by her side, whimpering and fondling her hand.

CHAPTER V–THE DOMINANCE OF THE EVOLVED

The keen joy of life was warmly flooding Ichabod Maurice this spring day. Not life for the sake of an ambition or a duty, but delight in the mere animal pleasure of existence. He had risen early, and, a neighbor with him, they had driven forth: stars all about, perpendicular, horizontal, save in the reddening east, upon their long day’s drive to the sawmill. The two teams plodded along steadily, their footfall muffled in the soft prairie loam; the earth elsewhere soundless, with a silence which even yet was a marvel to the city man.

The majesty of it held him silent until day dawned, and with the coming of the sun there woke in unison the chorus of joyous animal life. Then Ichabod, his long legs dangling over the dashboard, lifted up a voice untrained as the note of a loon, and sang lustily, until his companion on the wagon ahead,–boy-faced, man-bodied,–grinned perilously.

The long-visaged man was near happiness that morning,–unbelievably near. By nature unsocial, by habit, city inbred, artificially taciturn, there came with the primitive happiness of the moment the concomitant primitive desire for companionship. He smiled self-tolerantly when, obeying an instinct, he wound the lines around the seat, and went ahead to the man, who grinned companionably as he made room beside him.

“God’s country, this.” Ichabod’s hand made an all-including gesture, as he seated himself comfortably, his hat low over his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” and the grin was repeated.

The tall man reflected. Sunburned, roughly dressed, unshaven as he, Maurice, was, this boy-man never failed the word of respect. Ichabod examined him curiously out of his shaded lids. Big brown hands; body strong as a bull; powerful shoulders; neck turned like a model; a soft chin under a soft, light beard; gentle blue eyes–all in all, a face so open that its very legibility seemed a mark. It reddened now, under the scrutiny.

“Pardon,” said Ichabod. “I was thinking how happy you are.”

“Yes, sir.” And the face reddened again.

Ichabod smiled.

“When is it to be, Ole?”

The big body wriggled in blissful embarrassment.

“As soon as the house is built,”–confusedly.

“You’re building very fast, eh?”

The Swede grinned confirmation. Words were of value to Ole.

“I see the question was superfluous,” and Ichabod likewise smiled in genial comradery. A moment later, however, the smile vanished.

“You’re very content as it is, Ole,” he digressed, equivocally; “but–supposing–Minna were already the wife of a friend?”

The Swede stared in breathless astonishment.

“She isn’t, though” he gasped at length in startled protest.

“But supposing–“

“It would be so. I couldn’t help it.”

“You’d do nothing?” rank anarchy in the suggestion.

“What would there be to do?”

Ichabod temporized.

“Supposing again, she loved you, and didn’t love her husband?” Ole scratched his head, seeing very devious passages beyond. “That would be different,” and he crossed his legs.

Ichabod smiled. The world over, human nature is fashioned from one mould.

“Supposing, once more, it’s a year from now,–five years from now. You’ve married Minna, but you’re not happy. She’s grown to hate you,–to love another man?”

Ole’s faith was beautiful.

“It’s not to be thought of. It’s impossible!”

“But supposing,” urged Ichabod.

The boy-man was silent for a very long minute; then his face darkened, and the soft jaw grew hard.

“I don’t know–” he said slowly,–“I don’t know, but I think I kill that man.”

Ichabod did not smile this time.

“We’re all much alike, Ole. I think you would.”

They drove on; far past the town, now; the sun high in the sky; dew sparkling like prisms innumerable; the prairie colorings soft as a rug–its varied greens of groundwork blending with the narrow line of fresh breaking rolling at their feet.

“You were born in this country?” asked Ichabod suddenly.

“In Iowa. It’s much like this–only rougher.”