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“That ought to be easy,” said Burke. “Marry one.”

“That’s what I’m telling Bailey.”

“Why don’t you set the example. ‘Stelle Clayton–now.”

Rivers laughed, but his eyes, directed above Burke’s head, met the unsmiling gaze of Blanche and sobered.

“Miss Clayton and I don’t seem to get along first-rate,” he said, and her face lighted again.

“Well, there are lots of others ’round here–lonesome girls. Blanche, can’t you help Jim find a woman?”

Blanche did not answer lightly. She turned to her work. “I guess he can find one if he tries hard.”

She was alluring as she kneaded the bread at the table. The flex of her waist and the swing of her skirts affected Rivers powerfully. He watched her in silence. Once she looked around, and the penetrative glance of his eyes filled her face with a rush of blood, and her eyes misted. A few minutes later he said “good-night” in an absent-minded way and went home.

Burke talked on, attempting to retain the cheery atmosphere which Rivers had brought in, but Blanche refused to answer, a sombre look on her sullen face. She seemed falling back into her old petulant, moody ways, and her husband suffered a corresponding dejection.

The elation was passing out of his heart. Their picnic was at an end.

As the summer came on he was forced to go out ploughing for other settlers, and she was left alone a great deal. This was hard to bear. There was so little to do in her little sun-smit cabin, and her trip to the post-office to get the mail and to meet the other settlers came to be a necessity. Like the other women, she put on her best hat and gown when she went to the store, and a low word of compliment from Rivers, as he handed out the mail, put a color into her face and a joy in her heart which her husband had never been able to arouse–indeed, it was after these visits that she was most cruel to Willard.

Sometimes she went with him to visit the neighbors, but not often. One day he said:

“I’m goin’ to work f’r Jim Bradley to-day–want ‘o go ‘long?”

“I can’t this mornin’. Perhaps I’ll come over after dinner and walk home with you.”

“I think you’ll like Mrs. Bradley. She’s got the purtiest little baby you ever saw.” He did not look at her as he slung his pick and shovel on his shoulder. “Well, I’ll tell her you’ll be over about three o’clock.”

“All right, tell her. Mebbe I’ll come and mebbe I won’t,” she answered, ungraciously.

All that forenoon she went about her little cabin moodily, or sat silently by the open door watching the buffalo birds or larks as they came up about the barn for food. The green plain was all a-shimmer with pleasant heat. The plover, nesting in the grass, were nearly ready to bring forth their young–and the mother fox had already begun to lead her litter out upon the sunny hillside; only this childless woman seemed unhappy–sad.

As she came to the cabin of the Bradleys, Willard, sunk to his topknot in the ground, was burrowing like a badger in the clay, quite oblivious to the world above him. Some one was singing in the cabin, and, approaching the door, Blanche saw a picture which thrilled her with a strange, hungry, envious passion.

A young woman was seated in the tiny room with her back to the door, her hand on a cradle, and as she rocked she sang softly. She was a plain little woman, the cradle was cheap and common, and her singing was only a monotonous chant; but the scene had a sort of sublimity–it was so old, so typical, and so beautiful.

The woman without the threshold stood for a long time staring straight before her, then turned and walked away homeward–past the weary, patient, heroic man toiling deep in the earth for her sake–leaving him without a glance or a word.