ering, as they drew near to Luther's home. "I
want to go up to see ma before long and it's almost impossible to keep a
baby covered on this high seat." She thought a while and then added, "I
haven't been home since I was married."

"I shouldn't think you'd ever want to go," John replied ungraciously.

Tears of anger as well as mortification filled her eyes, and her throat
would not work. It was to stop gossip as much as to see her mother that
the girl desired to make the visit. The world was right: John was not
proud of her.

The sight of the "shanty" as they turned the corner near Luther's place
brought a new train of thought. Dear, kindly, sweet-souled Luther! The
world disapproved of his marriage too. He was coming toward them now, his
ragged overcoat blowing about him as he jumped over the ridges made by the
plow in turning out the late potatoes he had been digging.

"You carry the baby in for Lizzie, an' I'll tie these horses," he said,
beaming with cordiality. "Got caught with Sadie's sickness an' let half
th' potatoes freeze 's hard 's brickbats."

It was so cold that Elizabeth did not stand to ask about Sadie, but turned
to the house to escape the blast.

"I'll come for you at five if I can get back. I'm going over to see about
some calves at Warren's," John said as they went up the path.

"Is that why you insisted that I bring the baby? You needn't have been
afraid to tell me; you do as you please anyhow."

"H-s-sh! Here comes Hansen," John Hunter said warningly, and turned back
to the wagon, giving the child into Luther's arms at the door.

Luther Hansen cuddled the child warmly to him and without waiting to go in
the house raised the white shawl from its sleeping face for a peep at it.

"We lost ours," he said simply.

The house sheltered them from the wind, and Elizabeth stopped and looked
up at him in astonishment.

"You don't mean it? I--I didn't know you were expecting a child, Luther.
I'm so sorry. I wish I'd known."

The expression of sympathy escaped her unconsciously. Elizabeth would
always want to know of Luther's joys and sorrows.

A glad little light softened the pain in his face, and he looked at her
with a steady gaze, discerning the feeling of sound friendship behind the
words.

"I believe you are," he said, expressing the confirmation of a thing he
had never doubted. "I ain't askin' you any questions, Lizzie, I just
know--that's all."

With something like a glow about his hea