too,
but to her credit, be it written, she did not listen at the keyhole.

She got back into bed, exclaiming to herself with great emphasis:

"There, now, fight it out among yerselves."

When the minister stepped quickly inside the little kitchen, closing
the door hurriedly behind him to prevent the invasion of the cat (of
which there wasn't one and never had been any), he beheld a very busy
and beautiful young woman sifting flour into a baking-dish.

"Mary!" he almost shouted, hardly believing his senses.

He recovered himself instantly, and explained his errand, but the
pallor of his face was unmistakable.

When Mary handed him the cup of water she saw that his hand was
shaking; but she returned to her baking with the greatest composure.

The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the door in vain.

"Come out this way," Mary said as sweetly as if she really wanted him
to go.

She tried to open the outside door, also in vain. Mrs. McGuire had
secured it from the outside with a clothes-line prop and a horse nail.

The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire's work held good. Then
the absurdity of the position struck them both, and the little house
rang with their laughter--laughter that washed away the heartaches of
the dreary days before.

The minister's reserve was breaking down.

"Mary," he said, taking her face between his hands, "are you going to
marry Horace Clay?"

"No," she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest light in hers
that ever comes into a woman's face.

"Well, then," he said, as he drew her to him, "you are going to marry
me."

The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled back and the
sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into the kitchen. The teakettle,
too, on the stove behind them, threw up its lid and burst into a
thunder of bubbles.

The next time they tried the door it yielded, Mrs. McGuire having made
a second barefoot journey.

When they came up from the little kitchen, the light ineffable was
shining in their faces, but Mrs. McGuire called them back to earth by
remarking dryly:

"It's just as well I wasn't parchin' for that drink."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE THANKSGIVING

The prairie lay sere and brown like a piece of faded tapestry beneath
the November sun that, peering through the dust-laden air, seemed old
and worn with his efforts to warm the poor old faded earth.

The grain had all been cut and gathered into stacks that had dotte