The Wind Before the Dawn. Dell H. Munger

’em out from under that planter. Th’ same thing’s keeping ’im on th’ go now that kept ’im from givin’ up as quick as th’ rest did then. Chicken’s is like boys, Miss Farnshaw,” Silas continued, addressing Elizabeth; “th’ ones that makes th’ most trouble when thy’re little, you can count on as bein’ th’ most likely when they’re growed up. Now, Liza Ann there counted on that chicken soon’s ever she set eyes on ’im.”

      Having washed his face and hands in the tin basin on the bench just outside the kitchen door, Silas Chamberlain combed his curly locks of iron gray before the little looking glass which was so wrinkled that he looked like some fantastic caricature when mirrored on its surface. After a short grace at the opening of the meal, he passed a dish of potatoes, remarking:

      “We ain’t much hands t’ wait on th’ table, Miss Farnshaw; You’ll have t’ reach an’ help yourself.”

      “Who’s this plate for?” Elizabeth asked at last, designating the vacant place at her side.

      “That’s John’s,” said Mrs. Chamberlain.

      “John Hunter’s, Miss Farnshaw,” said Silas. “He’s our boarder, an’ th’ likeliest young man in these parts.” Then he added with conviction, “You two be goin’ t’ like each other.”

      A girlish blush covered the well-tanned cheeks, and to hide her embarrassment Elizabeth said with a laugh:

      “Describe this beau ideal of yours.”

      “Now, Si, do let th’ child alone,” Mrs. Chamberlain protested. “He’s always got t’ tease,” she added deprecatingly.

      “Sometimes I be an’ sometimes not. Miss Farnshaw made me think of you some way when I see her this afternoon.” Noting his wife’s look of surprise, he explained: “I mean when I see you down to th’ Cherryvale meetin’ house. An’ it didn’t take me long t’ make up my mind after that, neither.”

      Mrs. Chamberlain smiled at the mention of girlhood days, but said nothing, and Silas turned to Elizabeth again with his honest face alight with memories of youth.

      “You see, Miss Farnshaw, I’d gone out on th’ hunt of a stray calf, an’ an unexpected shower came on—th’ kind that rains with th’ sun still a shinin’—an’ I dug my heels into old Charlie’s flanks an’ hurried along down th’ road to th’ meeting house, a few rods farther on, when what should I see but a pretty girl on th’ steps of that same place of refuge! Well, I begged ’er pardon, but I stayed on them there steps till that shower cleared off. Most of th’ time I was a prayin’ that another cloud would appear, an’ I didn’t want it no bigger than a man’s hand neither. No, sir-ee, I wouldn’t ’a’ cared if it’d ’a’ been as big as th’ whole Bay of Biscay. An’ what I was thinkin’ jest now was that there was about th’ same fundamental differences ’tween you an’ John Hunter that th’ was ’tween Liza Ann an’ me. He’s light haired an’ blue eyed, an tall an’ slim, an’ he’s openin’ up a new farm, an’ ’ll need a wife. He talks of his mother comin’ out t’ keep house for him, but, law’s sakes! she wasn’t raised on a farm an’ wouldn’t know nothin’ about farm work. Oh, yes, I forgot t’ tell you th’ best part of my story: I got t’ carry Miss Liza Ann Parkins home on old Charlie, ’cause th’ crick rose over th’ banks outen th’ clouds of rain I prayed for!”

      “Now, Si Chamberlain, there ain’t a word of truth in that, an’ you know it,” said his wife, passing Elizabeth a hot biscuit. “I walked home by th’ turnpike road, Miss Farnshaw, though we did wait a bit, till it dried up a little.”

      Her husband’s laugh rang out; he had trapped Liza Ann into the discussion, in spite of herself, and he had trapped her into an admission as well.

      “Well,” he said, “I may be mistaken about th’ details, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for th’ rainy days since that particular time.”

      “But you haven’t told me why Mr. Hunter isn’t here to eat his supper,” said Elizabeth, “nor have you told me what he is like.”

      “Oh, he’s gone over to Colebyville for his mail, an’ won’t be home till late—in all this mud. As to what he’s like—it ain’t easy t’ tell what John’s like; he’s—he’s a university feller; most folks say he’s a dude, but we like him?”

      “What university?” Elizabeth asked with a quick indrawn breath; she knew now whom she had met on the road that afternoon.

      “He comes from Illinois. I guess it’s th’ State University—I never asked him. His father died an’ left him this land an’ he’s come out here to farm it. Couldn’t plow a straight furrow t’ save his life when he come a little over a year ago, but he’s picked up right smart,” Silas added, thereby giving the information the young girl wanted.

      This young man was to be in this neighbourhood all summer. Still another reason for applying for the Chamberlain school.

      As Elizabeth helped Liza Ann with her dishwashing after supper, John Hunter came in. The ground had been too soft for them to hear the wagon when he drove up. Silas introduced them promptly and added with a grin:

      “You’ve heard of folks that didn’t know enough t’ come in out of th’ rain? Well, that’s her!”

      John Hunter’s eyes twinkled an amused recognition, but he did not mention the accident in which Patsie had come to grief.

      “I am very glad to meet you, Miss Farnshaw; we are both wet weather birds.”

      Seeing Liza Ann reach for a frying pan, he addressed himself to her:

      “Never mind any supper for me, Mrs. Chamberlain. I knew I’d be late, as I had to go around by Warren’s after I got back, and I got an early supper at the new hotel before I left town!”

      “The extravagance of that!” exclaimed Mrs. Chamberlain, to whom hotel bills were unknown.

      John Hunter went to the door to clean some extra mud off his boot tops, and to hide a wide and fatuous smile at the thought of tricking Silas out of his accustomed joke. He felt nearer the girl, because she too had been silent regarding the afternoon encounter. He liked the mutuality of it and resolved that it should not be the last touch of that sort between them. While not really intellectual, John Hunter had the polish and tastes of the college man, and here he reflected was a girl who seemed near being on his own level. She looked, he thought, as if she could see such small matters as bespattered clothes.

      Silas followed him out. “You didn’t bed them horses down did you?” he asked.

      “No. I expect we’d better do it now and have it out of the way.”

      As they entered the dark stable and felt their way along the back of the little alley, behind the stalls, for the pitchforks, the younger man asked indifferently:

      “Who did you say the young lady was?”

      “Oh, ho!” shouted Silas; “it didn’t take you long. I knew you’d be courtin’ of me along with your questions. Now look here, John Hunter, you can’t go an’ carry this schoolma’am off till this here term’s finished. I look fur Carter an’ that new director over to-night, for a school meetin’, an’ I’m blamed if I’m goin’ t’ have you cuttin’ into our plans—no, sirr-ee—she’s t’ be left free t’ finish up this school, anyhow, if I help ’er get it.”

      “No danger! You get her the school; but how does she come to have that air away out here? Does she come from some town near here?”

      “Town nothin’! She was jest raised on these prairies, same as th’ rest of us. Ain’t she a dandy! No, sir—‘er father’s a farmer—‘bout as common as any of us, an’ she ain’t had no different raisin’. She’s different in ’erself somehow. Curious thing how one body’ll have a thing an’ another won’t, an’