outheld to her, and in turn she had had their babies and troubles laid
on her own breast for her and their comforting. She had been mothered
and sistered and brothered by these farmer folk with a very
prodigality of friendship, and to-day she realized more than ever
with positive exultation that she was brawn of their brawn and built
of their building.

And then to her, a woman of the fields, had come down Providence Road
over the Ridge from the great world outside--the _miracle_. She
slipped her hand into her pocket for just one rapturous crush of the
treasure-letter when suddenly it was borne in upon her that it might
be that even that must come to an end for her. Stay she must by her
nest of helpless folk, and was it with futile wings he was breasting
the great outer currents of which she was so ignorant? His letters
told her nothing of what he was doing, just were filled to the word
with half-spoken love and longing and, above all, with a great
impatience about what, or for what, it was impossible for her to
understand. She could only grieve over it and long to comfort him with
all the strength of her love for him. And so with thinking, puzzling
and sad planning the afternoon wore away for her and sunset found her
at the house putting the household in order and to bed with her usual
cheery fostering of creaking joints and cumbersome retiring
ceremonies.

At last she was at liberty to fling her exhausted body down on the
cool, patched, old linen sheets of the great four-poster which had
harbored many of her foremothers and let herself drift out on her own
troubled waters. Wrapped in the compassionate darkness she was giving
way to the luxury of letting the controlled tears rise to her eyes and
the sobs that her white throat ached from suppressing all day were