own particular battle with him, how
she watched here and there lest a penny be spilled and his road be made
the longer to the goal he fixed. She was quite willing to consider
breaking up Alida's intimacy with the other man, because, to her
dispassionate mind, Alida was of no account in the world of feeling. She
might have her mild preferences, but if Newell could give her muslin
dresses and plated pins, he would suit her excellently. And Newell
wanted her. As for Clayton Rand, he would be none the poorer, lacking
her. She had thought it all out, and she was sure she knew.

The next morning, dressed in brown, the color of the earth she worked
in, Dorcas stepped out into the dewy world and closed her door behind
her. It was a long walk to the field. For some unguessed reason she had
been heavy-hearted at rising; but now the pure look of the early day
refreshed her and she went on cheerfully. Since her mother's death life
had seemed to her all a maze where she could find few certainties. She
had no ties, no duties, save the general ones to neighborhood and
church, and her loneliness now and then rose before her like something
inexorable and vast, and would be looked at. Perhaps that was why she
had thrown herself whole-souled into Newell's willful quest, though at
moments she longed to strangle it with passion fiercer than its own; and
why she wondered just what she could do after the desire of his heart
had flowered and Alida was his wife.

As she walked along, she held her head very high, and carried her hat in
her hand, leaving the sun to strike upon her shining braids and light
them to a gloss. For the moment she was unreasonably happy, forgetful of
the past, and aware only of the sunlight on green fields. Then suddenly
she found that a light wagon had drawn up and Clayton Rand was asking
her to ride. She looked at him one quick instant before she answered.
She had known him when they were both children and he came to spend the
summer a mile away, and sometimes, for fun, went to the district school.
Since then they had kept up a recognized acquaintance, but this was the
first time in years that they had spoken together. He was a heavy-faced
young man, with rough-looking clothes of a correct cut, and a suggested
taste in dogs and horses.

"Ride?" he asked again, and Dorcas smiled at him out of many thoughts.
She could not have whispered them to herself perhaps; but they all
concerned Newell and his daily lack. Clayton