nge and unfamiliar to him, as if it were something he had
read about, or dreamed, and forgotten. He lay very still, watching the
white road that ran in front of him, lost itself among the fields, and
then, at a distance, reappeared over a little hill. At last, against
this white band he saw something moving rapidly, and he got up and
walked to the edge of the field. "She is passing the row of poplars
now," he thought. He heard the padded beat of hoofs along the dusty
road, and as she came into sight he stepped out and waved his arms.
Then, for fear of frightening the horse, he drew back and waited. Clara
had seen him, and she came up at a walk. Nils took the horse by the bit
and stroked his neck.

"What are you doing out so late, Clara Vavrika? I went to the house, but
Johanna told me you had gone to your father's."

"Who can stay in the house on a night like this? Aren't you out
yourself?"

"Ah, but that's another matter."

Nils turned the horse into the field.

"What are you doing? Where are you taking Norman?"

"Not far, but I want to talk to you tonight; I have something to say to
you. I can't talk to you at the house, with Olaf sitting there on the
porch, weighing a thousand tons."

Clara laughed. "He won't be sitting there now. He's in bed by this time,
and asleep--weighing a thousand tons."

Nils plodded on across the stubble. "Are you really going to spend the
rest of your life like this, night after night, summer after summer?
Haven't you anything better to do on a night like this than to wear
yourself and Norman out tearing across the country to your father's
and back? Besides, your father won't live forever, you know. His little
place will be shut up or sold, and then you'll have nobody but the
Ericsons. You'll have to fasten down the hatches for the winter then."

Clara moved her head restlessly. "Don't talk about that. I try never to
think of it. If I lost Father I'd lose everything, even my hold over the
Ericsons."

"Bah! You'd lose a good deal more than that. You'd lose your race,
everything that makes you yourself. You've lost a good deal of it now."

"Of what?"

"Of your love of life, your capacity for delight."

Clara put her hands up to her face. "I haven't, Nils Ericson, I haven't!
Say anything to me but that. I won't have it!" she declared vehemently.

Nils led the horse up to a straw stack, and turned to Clara, looking
at her intently, as he had looked at her that Sunday afternoon