mith will be
here next Sunday, but I, I am thankful to say, shall not!"

PART THREE

TOGETHER AT LAST

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ALICE ON THE WAY

Out on a Dakota prairie, in a corner of a motionless Pullman sat a short
girl in a plain blue suit, her grey eyes behind thick glasses bent upon
the pages of a red leather book.

"'Beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise
for the spirit of heaviness.'" She read the words over and over, and the
book fell from her hands as she looked out on the limitless fields.
"'Beauty for ashes.' What a striking way of putting it! 'The oil of
joy'--why, I wonder what we are stopping here so long for. It doesn't
look like a station."

And suddenly Alice Prescott sat up straight and looked about her, alert
and alive.

The porter came slowly in response to her repeated ring. "What's the
matter? Why, there's an engine off the track a little ways off, and our
crew and engine has gone to help. No, nobody hurt. Just a freight
engine. Don't know how long. Mebbe one hour. Mebbe two."

"But I'll miss my connections!"

"Too bad, Miss." The porter looked at her with lazy curiosity. The train
had already been at a standstill for ten minutes, and every other woman
on the car had put him through a catechism long ago. This girl looked
awake and practical. How could a porter understand that the mere beauty
of words and ideas could render one unconscious to delays in
transportation?

Alice rose and walked up and down the aisle. Three women, rather
overdressed, were playing cards in a remote section. A man slept in a
corner. She went to the door, and seeing groups of passengers standing
outside along the track, jumped down from the high step and walked a
little, tasting the fresh air with pleasure. The country offered nothing
to her gaze. Her eye, accustomed to mountains, found endless level
stretches harrowing rather than soothing. She recalled a Dakota girl at
Dexter who was always telling of the beauty of the prairie, and longing
for it. "I suppose it's a matter of habit," she thought to herself.
"There is certainly something that kindles your imagination in such a
sight. It would be dreary if it weren't cultivated, but it must be
wonderful to see a whole country reclaimed from wildness and made
productive. 'Beauty for ashes' O!" and with a little shiver of pleasure,
she repeated the lines that had so charmed her a few minutes before.
"'The spirit of heavines