ked up thoughtfully at the stars. "We can remember the graveyard
when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now--"

"And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said
Carl softly. "Isn't it queer: there are only two or three human
stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they
had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that
have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years."

"Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes
envy them. There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought
your old place. I wouldn't have sold it to any one else, but I
was always fond of that girl. You must remember her, little Marie
Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here? When she was eighteen
she ran away from the convent school and got married, crazy child!
She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had
nothing, and the old man was willing to buy them a place and set
them up. Your farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so
near me. I've never been sorry, either. I even try to get along
with Frank on her account."

"Is Frank her husband?"

"Yes. He's one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are
good-natured, but Frank thinks we don't appreciate him here, I
guess. He's jealous about everything, his farm and his horses and
his pretty wife. Everybody likes her, just the same as when she
was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church with Emil,
and it's funny to see Marie standing there laughing and shaking
hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking
behind her as if he could eat everybody alive. Frank's not a bad
neighbor, but to get on with him you've got to make a fuss over
him and act as if you thought he was a very important person all
the time, and different from other people. I find it hard to keep
that up from one year's end to another."

"I shouldn't think you'd be very successful at that kind of thing,
Alexandra." Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.

"Well," said Alexandra firmly, "I do the best I can, on Marie's
account. She has it hard enough, anyway. She's too young and
pretty for this sort of life. We're all ever so much older and
slower. But she's the kind that won't be downed easily. She'll
work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all night, and
drive the hay wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by
a job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I w