*****

The Chatelaine of Burnt Ridge never married.




THROUGH THE SANTA CLARA WHEAT


CHAPTER I


It was an enormous wheat-field in the Santa Clara valley, stretching to
the horizon line unbroken. The meridian sun shone upon it without glint
or shadow; but at times, when a stronger gust of the trade winds passed
over it, there was a quick slanting impression of the whole surface that
was, however, as unlike a billow as itself was unlike a sea. Even when
a lighter zephyr played down its long level, the agitation was
superficial, and seemed only to momentarily lift a veil of greenish
mist that hung above its immovable depths. Occasional puffs of dust
alternately rose and fell along an imaginary line across the field,
as if a current of air were passing through it, but were otherwise
inexplicable.

Suddenly a faint shout, apparently somewhere in the vicinity of the
line, brought out a perfectly clear response, followed by the audible
murmur of voices, which it was impossible to localize. Yet the whole
field was so devoid of any suggestion of human life or motion that
it seemed rather as if the vast expanse itself had become suddenly