CHAPTER IV.

"ONE FLEW WEST."


Out in the village of Plainsville, Kansas, the rain was running in
torrents down the gables of the little brown house where the Ware family
lived. It had rained all day, a cold, steady pour, until the world
outside had taken on the appearance of early March, instead of late May.

Holland and Mary and the baby (they called him baby still, although he
was nearly four) were playing menagerie in the corners of the
dining-room. They had a tent made of the clothes-horse and some sheets,
and the growling and roaring that went on inside was something terrific.
It made no difference to the little mother, placidly sewing by the last
rays of daylight at one of the western windows; but the noise grated on
Joyce's mood.

Joyce had finished setting the supper-table, and while she waited for
the potatoes to boil she stood with her face pressed against the kitchen
window, looking gloomily out into the back yard.

It was not a cheerful outlook. Nothing was to be seen but the high board
alley fence with a broken chicken-coop leaning against it, the
weather-beaten old stable, and a scraggy, dripping peach-tree. The yard
was full of puddles, and still the rain splashed on. The sight made
Joyce want to cry.

"If I wasn't at home," she said to herself, "I should think that I am
homesick, for I feel the way I did that day up in Monsieur Gréville's