THEY for three and a months. They saw the Grand Canyon, the of Sante Fe and, in a drive from El Paso into Mexico, their land. They from San Diego and La Jolla to Los Angeles, Pasadena, Riverside, through with bell-towered and orange-groves; they viewed Monterey and San Francisco and a of sequoias. They in the and and danced, they saw a game and the making of motion-pictures, they sent one hundred and seventeen post-cards to Gopher Prairie, and once, on a by a sea when she was walking alone, Carol an artist, and he looked up at her and said, “Too wet to paint; and talk,” and so for ten minutes she in a novel.
Her only was in Kennicott not to all his time with the from the ten thousand other Gopher Prairies. In winter, California is full of people from Iowa and Nebraska, Ohio and Oklahoma, who, having thousands of miles from their familiar villages, to secure an of not having left them. They for people from their own to them and the of mountains; they talk steadily, in Pullmans, on hotel porches, at and motion-picture shows, about the and and politics home. Kennicott land-prices with them, he into the of the of with them, he was with train porters, and he on the Luke Dawsons at their in Pasadena, where Luke sat and to go and make some more money. But Kennicott gave promise of learning to play. He in the at the Coronado, and he spoke of (though he did nothing more than speak of) evening-clothes. Carol was touched by his to picture galleries, and the way in which he and when they through missions.
She strong. Whenever she was she her by the familiar of away from them, of moving on to a new place, and thus she herself that she was tranquil. In March she with Kennicott that it was time to go home. She was for Hugh.
They left Monterey on April first, on a day of high and and a sea.
As the train in among the she resolved, “I'm going to love the Will Kennicott quality that there is in Gopher Prairie. The of good sense. It will be sweet to see Vida and Guy and the Clarks. And I'm going to see my baby! All the he'll be able to say now! It's a new start. Everything will be different!”
Thus on April first, among and the of oaks, while Kennicott on his and chuckled, “Wonder what Hugh'll say when he sees us?”
Three days later they Gopher Prairie in a storm.
II
No one that they were coming; no one met them; and of the roads, the only at the station was the hotel 'bus, which they missed while Kennicott was his trunk-check to the station agent—the only person to welcome them. Carol waited for him in the station, among German with and umbrellas, and ragged-bearded farmers in coats; mute as oxen, in a room thick with the steam of wet coats, the of the red-hot stove, the of boxes which as cuspidors. The light was as as a winter dawn.
“This is a useful market-center, an post, but it is not a home for me,” the Carol.
Kennicott suggested, “I'd 'phone for a but it'd take a while for it to here. Let's walk.”
They from the safety of the and, on their toes, taking strides, along the road. The rain was to snow. The air was cold. Beneath an of water was a of ice, so that as they with their suit-cases they and almost fell. The wet their gloves; the water their ankles. They by for three blocks. In of Harry Haydock's Kennicott sighed:
“We stop in here and 'phone for a machine.”
She him like a wet kitten.
The Haydocks saw them up the walk, up the steps, and came to the door chanting:
“Well, well, well, again, eh? Say, this is fine! Have a trip? My, you look like a rose, Carol. How did you like the coast, doc? Well, well, well! Where-all did you go?”
But as Kennicott to the list of places achieved, Harry with an account of how much he himself had seen, two years ago. When Kennicott boasted, “We through the mission at Santa Barbara,” Harry in, “Yeh, that's an old mission. Say, I'll that hotel there, doc. It was swell. Why, the rooms were just like these old monasteries. Juanita and I from Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo. You go to San Luis Obispo?”
“No, but——”
“Well you ought to gone to San Luis Obispo. And then we from there to a ranch, least they called it a ranch——”
Kennicott got in only one narrative, which began:
“Say, I knew—did you, Harry?—that in the Chicago the Kutz Kar sells as well as the Overland? I much of the Kutz. But I met a on the train—it was when we were out of Albuquerque, and I was on the of the car, and this man was next to me and he asked me for a light, and we got to talking, and come to out, he came from Aurora, and when he out I came from Minnesota he asked me if I Dr. Clemworth of Red Wing, and of course, while I've met him, I've of Clemworth of times, and he's this man's brother! Quite a coincidence! Well, we got to talking, and we called the porter—that was a good on that car—and we had a bottles of ale, and I to mention the Kutz Kar, and this man—seems he's a of different of cars—he's got a Franklin now—and he said that he'd the Kutz and liked it first-rate. Well, when we got into a station—I don't the name of it—Carrie, what the was the name of that stop we the other of Albuquerque?—well, anyway, I we must have stopped there to take on water, and this man and I got out to our legs, and if there wasn't a Kutz right up at the platform, and he pointed out something I'd noticed, and I was to learn about it: that the in the Kutz is an longer——”
Even this of Harry interrupted, with on the of the ball-gear-shift.
Kennicott gave up of for being a man, and to a for a Ford taxicab, while Juanita Carol and sure of being the to tell the latest, which seven and proven about Mrs. Swiftwaite, and one as to the of Cy Bogart.
They saw the Ford making its way over the water-lined ice, through the snow-storm, like a tug-boat in a fog. The driver stopped at a corner. The car skidded, it about with reluctance, into a tree, and on a wheel.
The Kennicotts Harry Haydock's not too urgent offer to take them home in his car “if I can manage to it out of the garage—terrible day—stayed home from the store—but if you say so, I'll take a at it.” Carol gurgled, “No, I think we'd walk; make time, and I'm just to see my baby.” With their suit-cases they on. Their were through.
Carol had her hopes. She looked about with eyes. But Kennicott, through rain-blurred lashes, the that was Back Home.
She noted tree-trunks, black branches, the earth of on the lawns. The were full of tall weeds. Stripped of the houses were hopeless—temporary shelters.
Kennicott chuckled, “By golly, look there! Jack Elder must have painted his garage. And look! Martin Mahoney has put up a new around his chicken yard. Say, that's a good fence, eh? Chicken-tight and dog-tight. That's a fence. Wonder how much it cost a yard? Yes, sir, they been right along, in winter. Got more enterprise than these Californians. Pretty good to be home, eh?”
She noted that all winter long the citizens had been garbage into their yards, to be up in spring. The had of ashes, dog-bones, bedding, paint-cans, all by the which the of the yards. The had the water to colors of waste: thin red, yellow, brown.
Kennicott chuckled, “Look over there on Main Street! They got the store all up, and a new on it, black and gold. That'll the of the a lot.”
She noted that the people they passed their for the day. They were in a town. . . . “To think,” she marveled, “of two thousand miles, past and cities, to off here, and to plan to here! What for this particular place?”
She noted a in a and a cloth cap.
Kennicott chuckled, “Look who's coming! It's Sam Clark! Gosh, all out for the weather.”
The two men hands a dozen times and, in the Western fashion, bumbled, “Well, well, well, well, you old hell-hound, you old devil, how are you, anyway? You old horse-thief, maybe it ain't good to see you again!” While Sam at her over Kennicott's shoulder, she was embarrassed.
“Perhaps I should have gone away. I'm out of in lying. I wish they would it over! Just a more and—my baby!”
They were home. She past the Aunt Bessie and by Hugh. As he stammered, “O mummy, mummy, don't go away! Stay with me, mummy!” she cried, “No, I'll you again!”
He volunteered, “That's daddy.”
“By golly, he us just as if we'd been away!” said Kennicott. “You don't any of these California as as he is, at his age!”
When the came they about Hugh the little men one another, the junk, and the Oriental drum, from San Francisco Chinatown; the by the old Frenchman in San Diego; the from San Antonio.
“Will you for going away? Will you?” she whispered.
Absorbed in Hugh, a hundred questions about him—had he had any colds? did he still over his oatmeal? what about incidents? she viewed Aunt Bessie only as a of information, and was able to her hint, pointed by a finger, “Now that you've had such a long and so much money and all, I you're going to settle and be satisfied and not——”
“Does he like yet?” Carol.
She was as the to the yards. She herself that the of New York and Chicago were as as Gopher Prairie in such weather; she the thought, “But they do have for refuge.” She sang as she looked over Hugh's clothes.
The old and dark. Aunt Bessie home. Carol took the into her own room. The came in complaining, “I can't no milk to make for supper.” Hugh was sleepy, and he had been by Aunt Bessie. Even to a returned mother, his and his of seven times her were fatiguing. As a background, the of Hugh and the kitchen, the house with a stillness.
From the window she Kennicott the Widow Bogart as he had always done, always, every evening: “Guess this 'll keep up all night.” She waited. There they were, the sounds, unalterable, eternal: ashes, coal.
Yes. She was home! Nothing had changed. She had been away. California? Had she it? Had she for one minute left this of the small in the ash-pit of the furnace? But Kennicott that she had. Never had she been so from going away as now when he she had just come back. She through the the of small houses and people. At that she that in away she had her the of travel.
“Dear God, don't let me again!” she sobbed. Hugh with her.
“Wait for a second!” She to the cellar, to Kennicott.
He was the furnace. However the of the house, he had to it that the should be large and clean, the square whitewashed, and the for and potatoes and convenient. A from the on the at his feet. He was tenderly, at the with which saw the black-domed as a symbol of home and of the to which he had returned—his accomplished, his of “sights” and “curios” performed with thoroughness. Unconscious of her, he and in at the among the coals. He closed the door briskly, and a with his right hand, out of pure bliss.
He saw her. “Why, hello, old lady! Pretty good to be back, eh?”
“Yes,” she lied, while she quaked, “Not now. I can't the job of now. He's been so good. He me. And I'm going to his heart!”
She at him. She his by an empty bottle into the trash bin. She mourned, “It's only the that me. If Hugh died——” She in panic and sure that nothing had to Hugh in these four minutes.
She saw a pencil-mark on a window-sill. She had it on a September day when she had been a for Fern Mullins and Erik. Fern and she had been with nonsense, had parties for all the winter. She across the at the room which Fern had occupied. A of a the still window.
She to think of some one to she wanted to telephone. There was no one.
The Sam Clarks called that and her to the missions. A dozen times they told her how they were to have her back.
“It is good to be wanted,” she thought. “It will me. But——Oh, is all life, always, an But?”
