ofs along the moonlit road, two dark
shadows going over the hill; and then the great, still land
stretched untroubled under the azure night. Two shadows had passed.

VIII

A year after the flight of Olaf Ericson's wife, the night train was
steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was hurrying
through one of the day-coaches, his lantern on his arm, when a lank,
fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush seats and tweaked him by
the coat.

"What is the next stop, please, sir?"

"Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don't you?" He looked
down, and noticed that the boy's eyes were red and his face was
drawn, as if he were in trouble.

"Yes. But I was wondering whether I could get off at the next place
and get a train back to Omaha."

"Well, I suppose you could. Live in Omaha?"

"No. In the western part of the State. How soon do we get to Red
Oak?"

"Forty minutes. You'd better make up your mind, so I can tell the
baggageman to put your trunk off."

"Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven't got any," the boy
added, blushing.

"Run away," the conductor thought, as he slammed the coach door
behind him.

Eric Ericson crumpled down in his seat and put his brown hand to his
forehead. He had been crying, and he had had no supper, and his head
was aching violently. "Oh, what shall I do?" he thought, as he
looked dully down at his big shoes. "Nils will be ashamed of me; I
haven't got any spunk."

Ever since Nils had run away with his brother's wife, life at home
had been hard for little Eric. His mother and Olaf both suspected
him of complicity. Mrs. Ericson was harsh and fault-finding,
constantly wounding the boy's pride; and Olaf was always getting her
against him.

Joe Vavrika heard often from his daughter. Clara had always been
fond of her father, and happiness made her kinder. She wrote him
long accounts of the voyage to Bergen, and of the trip she and Nils
took through Bohemia to the little town where her father had grown
up and where she herself was born. She visited all her kinsmen
there, and sent her father news of his brother, who was a priest; of
his sister, who had married a horse-breeder--of their big farm and
their many children. These letters Joe always managed to read to
little Eric. They contained messages for Eric and Hilda. Clara sent
presents, too, which Eric never dared to take home and which poor
little Hilda never even saw, though she loved to hear Eric tell
about t