"I was born on the ranch, you know; and father was not fond of leaving
it. Indeed, now he says he will never again go out of sight of it. But
you can go a long journey without doing that; for it lies on a plateau
in the valley, and it can be seen from three different mountain passes.
Mother died there, and for that reason and others--father has had
a strange life--he never wanted to go away. He brought a lady from
Pennsylvania to teach me. She had wonderful learning, but she didn't
make very much use of it. I thought if I had learning I would not waste
it reading books. I would use it to--to live with. Father had a library,
but I never cared for it. He was forever at books too. Of course,"
she hastened to add, noticing the look of mortification deepen on her
husband's face, "I like books very well if there is nothing better at
hand. But I always said to Mrs. Windsor--it was she who taught me--why
read what other folk have been thinking when you can go out and think
yourself? Of course one prefers one's own thoughts, just as one prefers
one's own ranch, or one's own father."

"Then you are sure to like New York when you go there to live," cried
Jessica; "for there you will find something to make life entertaining
all the time. No one need fall back on books there."

"I'm not sure. I'm afraid there must be such dreadful crowds of people.
Of course I should try to feel that they were all like me, with just the
same sort of fears, and that it was ridiculous for us to be afraid of
each other, when at heart we all meant to be kind."

Jessica fairly wrung her hands. "Heavens!" she cried. "I said you would
like New York. I am afraid, my dear, that it will break your heart!"

"Oh," said Mrs. Brainard, with what was meant to be a gentle jest, "no
one can break my heart except Leroy. I should not care enough about any
one else, you know."

The compliment was an exquisite one. I felt the blood creep to my own
brain in a sort of vicarious rapture, and I avoided looking at Leroy
lest he should dislike to have me see the happiness he must feel. The
simplicity of the woman seemed to invigorate me as the cool air of her
mountains might if it blew to me on some bright dawn, when I had come,
fevered and sick of soul, from the city.

When we were alone, Jessica said to me: "That man has too much vanity,
and he thinks it is sensitiveness. He is going to imagine that his wife
makes him suffer. There's no one so brutally selfish as yo