The Wind Before the Dawn. Dell H. Munger

had become one of the family.

      At the end of the week Mr. Farnshaw did not appear; farm matters had detained him, so that the opportunity for a closer acquaintance with his daughter was permitted. Under Mrs. Hornby the child blossomed naturally. The old-fashioned secretary was the young girl’s delight. Seeing her shaking in silent glee over “David Copperfield” one night, and remembering her eager pursuit of intellectual things, Mrs. Hornby remarked to her husband, “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” The world of to-day would add to Susan Hornby’s little speech, “Not only as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,” but “So shall he live, and do, and be surrounded.” This simple daughter of the farm, the herds, and the homesteaded hills of bleak and barren Kansas, where the educated and intellectual of earth were as much foreigners as the inhabitants of far off Russia or Hindustan, had by her thought not only prepared herself for the life she coveted, but had compelled the opportunity to enter upon her travels therein. When Mr. Farnshaw arrived, Mrs. Hornby was fortunate in the form of her request to take his daughter with her, and it was arranged that if they went to Topeka the child should be a member of their household.

      “We’ll be just as good to her as if she were our own,” she promised, and then added reflectively, “We’re going to call her her full name too. Elizabeth was my mother’s name. It’s so much prettier than Lizzie.”

      Under any other circumstances Mr. Farnshaw would have seen symptoms of being “stuck-up” in the change of name, but Elizabeth had been his mother’s name, and although he had little recollection of his mother, and had never heard her called by her given name, he had seen it writ large on her tombstone, and, his eye having become accustomed to the word, his ear fell naturally into line with its pronunciation; besides, his daughter was to be a school-teacher, and was to sign contracts like a man, and must have a proper sort of name. She was to live in the house of a member of the legislature, too, and already called him and his wife “Uncle” and “Aunt.” Mr. Farnshaw tasted pride and found it a sweet morsel.

      Election day came the first week in November and Nathan was successful. With the high school year in view, they moved to Topeka the next week. It was as if they were literally to educate their Katie. A slight disappointment awaited them. Though they were ready the young girl did not come immediately.

      According to the dilatory methods of the Farnshaw household, Elizabeth—she had been supported by her father when the boys had shown an inclination to laugh her out of the change of name—was three weeks later yet in going. The eager girl urged at home that she would be behind her classes if she went into school so late in the term, but her parents, who knew nothing of school requirements, refused to let her go till the corn was all husked and everything snug for the winter, arguing that so much stock had been lost the winter before that every care must be taken of what was left. Tears at the prospect of such a handicap made no impression, and it was not till December that the child and her father set off in the farm wagon for Topeka, two days distant. Railroad fare was not to be considered, and two new dresses and a new pair of shoes—not side-laces—were all the additions to her wardrobe.

      Susan Hornby was much annoyed at the delay, but met the young girl with open arms when she arrived.

      She was less happy in accosting Mr. Farnshaw.

      “Why in this world did you keep her so late? Half the year is gone!” was her luckless remark to him.

      “She’s doin’ mighty well t’ get t’ come at all,” Mr. Farnshaw replied, taking instant offence. “I’m th’ only man in our part of th’ country that’s givin’ ’is childern any show at th’ high school at all, I can tell you. I knew I wouldn’t get no thanks for it from th’ beginnin’. That’s th’ way with things nowadays,” was his reply.

      “Oh, well, we all know you have needed her, and that it’s hard to spare a child on the farm, but we were so anxious to have her have all that could be got out of this year,” Mrs. Hornby said, divided between a desire to scold the man and a real disinclination to hurt any one. So much valuable time had been lost. She saw that she must be politic for Elizabeth’s sake, however, for the child’s appearance told the experienced woman that she must keep him in a good humour and inveigle him into giving her a little money for clothes.

      “We’ll just make the best of the time that is left, little girl,” Mrs. Hornby said cheerfully, and in that only added to the impression already made, for Mr. Farnshaw remembered his daughter’s tears, and the feeling grew that instead of being lauded for what he considered a great sacrifice on his part, he was coming in for a blame wholly unexpected, and that this woman was siding with the girl and going to spoil her. People of the farm, more than any other class, resent being blamed, and Josiah Farnshaw was an extreme representative of his class. He had come to Topeka delighted with himself because of the fine opportunities he was giving his daughter, and here was this woman at the first word finding fault because he had not done better; it was no wonder that children were not satisfied with anything a man could give them!

      There was now no possibility of Elizabeth entering school till after Christmas, and Aunt Susan turned her attention to efforts to get the most out of the time they would have to reorganize the poorly constructed dresses. She was considerate of Mr. Farnshaw’s evident sensitiveness, seeing also that he had no real comprehension of the damage done by the delay, and made him comfortable by urging him to stay on after he was really ready to go home. So successful was she that he forgot for the time he was in her presence that all was not in his favour, and she was able to induce him to give all that he was able to give toward the improvements she suggested in his daughter’s wearing apparel. Elizabeth was surprised at the ready response to demands made upon his purse, but here again Mrs. Hornby left a sting, wholly unintended and at the time not recognized by Mr. Farnshaw himself, but remembered by him later and never forgotten after it was once fixed firmly in his mind. Aunt Susan, concerned for the entrance of the child into the company of those of her own age, pointed out to her father the gayly dressed girls of Elizabeth’s age, and suggested that a new coat would be an absolute necessity. Mr. Farnshaw had given Mrs. Hornby all the money he had with him except four dollars, and his wife had given him a list of groceries to be purchased in the city. It rather pleased him to use the money toward his daughter’s adornment and it tickled his pride as well to give his last cent toward her education. Mrs. Hornby looked at the money he placed in her hand, and hesitated visibly. Josiah Farnshaw stiffened at her manner. Aunt Susan hated to ask for more, but this would not buy the girl a coat that she could wear in Topeka!

      “You are just as good as you can be about this, Mr. Farnshaw, but—but a coat like the other girls have will cost at least eight or ten dollars.” She felt his attitude.

      The amount named took the man’s breath. He had given all he had and yet this woman, whom he had begun to like again, was not satisfied!

      “A man can’t do no more’n he can, an’ that’s th’ last red cent I’ve got,” he replied, humiliated at the necessity of the confession.

      “Oh! I’m so sorry,” Aunt Susan exclaimed, really so at having forced the statement. She sat with her brows knit in serious thought a moment, and a light began to break in upon her. Elizabeth had to have that wrap somehow and here was a way right before her. She remembered a long cape she had noticed going down the street that very morning.

      “I guess we can make it do,” she said hesitantly. She was thinking out her plan and spoke slowly. “We’ll just make a cloak ourselves. We can do it.”

      Josiah Farnshaw left the next day for home, in a good humour with himself and his munificence, but on the way home remembered Susan Hornby’s hesitancy and later decision to make the cloak herself, and the worm of suspicion began to gnaw again.

      “If that woman could make something that’d do, what’d she ask for one of them expensive coats for?” he asked himself. “I guess it’s only th’ girl that figures in that deal! I ain’t nothin’ but th’ oats she feeds on nohow,” he reflected, and having once given the thought lodgment it grew and became the chief stone of the corner.

      Our own comes to us, and Josiah Farnshaw had formed the habit of that