im good-by, as a dutiful wife ought, and
held Pauline Augusta up in the doorway so that she might attempt a
last-minute hand-waving at her daddy.

But I slumped, once it was all over. I felt mysteriously alone in an
indifferent big world with the rime of winter creeping along its
edges. Even Gershom, after the children had had their lesson, became
conscious of my preoccupation and went so far as to ask if I wasn't
feeling well.

I smilingly assured him that there was nothing much wrong with me.

"_Lerne zu leiden ohne zu klagen!_" as the dying Frederick said to a
singularly foolish son.

"But you're upset?" persisted Gershom, with his valorous brand of
timidity that so often reminds me of a robin defending her eggs.

"No, it's not that," I said with a shake of the head. "It's only that
I'm--I'm a trifle too chilly to be comfortable."

And the foolish youth, at that, straightway fell to stoking the fire.
I had to laugh a little. And that made him study me with solemn eyes.

"Just think, Gershom," I said as I gathered up my sewing, "my heart is
perishing of cold in a province which is estimated to contain almost
seventeen per cent. of the world's known coal supply!"

And that, apparently, left him with something to think about as I made
my way off to bed ... It's hard to write coherently, I find, when
you're not living coherently ...

Syd Woodward, of Buckhorn, having learned that I can drive a tractor,
has asked me if I'll take part in the plowing-match to-morrow. And
I've given my promise to show Mere Man what a woman can do in the
matter of turning a mile-long furrow. I feel rather audacious over it
all. And I'm glad to inject a little excitement into life ... I'm
saving up for a new sewing-machine ... Tarzanette has got rather badly
cut up in some of our barb-wire fencing.

_Friday the Fifteenth_

The plowing-match was good fun, and I enjoyed it even more than I had
expected. The men "kidded" me a good deal, and gave me a cheer at the
end (I don't quite know whether it was for my work or my costume) and
I had to pose for photographs, and a moving-picture man even followed
me about for a round, shooting me as I turned my prairie stubble
upside down. But the excitement of the plowing-match has been eclipsed
by a bit of news which has rather taken my breath away. _It is Peter
Ketley who has bought the Harris Ranch._

_Saturday the Twenty-Third_

The rains have brought mushrooms, slathers o