strangers, she had been conscious of a warm little thrill of elation, of excitement—of adventure! That was it. “The whole thing’s just a grand adventure,” her father, Simeon Peake, had said. And now the sensations of that day were repeating themselves. Now, as then, she was doing what was considered a revolutionary and daring thing; a thing that High Prairie regarded with horror. And now, as then, she took stock. Youth was gone, but she had health, courage; a boy of nine; twenty-five acres of wornout farm land; dwelling and out-houses in a bad state of repair; and a gay adventuresome spirit that was never to die, though it led her into curious places and she often found, at the end, only a trackless waste from which she had to retrace her steps painfully. But always, to her, red and green cabbages were to be jade and burgundy, chrysoprase and porphyry. Life has no weapons against a woman like that.
And the wine-red cashmere. She laughed aloud.
“What are you laughing at, Mom?”
That sobered her. “Oh, nothing, Sobig. I didn’t know I was laughing. I was just thinking about a red dress I had when I first came to High Prairie a girl. I’ve got it yet.”
“What’s that to laugh at?” He was following a yellow-hammer with his eyes.
“Nothing. Mother said it was nothing.”
“Wisht I’d brought my sling-shot.” The yellow-hammer was perched on the fence by the roadside not ten feet away.
