ouch and went to the
window where she could look across at the bleak hilltop. She stood
there for some minutes looking out wistfully, hoping that she would see
him ride into view at the top of the steep trail. After awhile she
went back and curled up on the wide old couch and stared abstractedly
into the fire.

John had gone out after the young speckled rooster that fought the
other chickens and must now do his part toward salving the hurt and
cheering the home-coming of Billy Louise. John returned, mumbled with
Phoebe at the far end of the room, and went out again. Phoebe worked
silently and briskly, rattling pans now and then and lifting the stove
lids to put in more wood. Billy Louise heard the sounds but dimly.
The fire was filled with pictures; her thoughts were wandering here and
there, bridging the gap between the past and the misty future. After
awhile the savory odor of the young speckled rooster, that had fought
all the other chickens but was now stewing in a mottled blue-and-white
granite pan, smote her nostrils and won her thoughts from dreaming.
She sat up and pushed back her hair like one just waking from sleep.

"I'll set the table, Phoebe, when you're ready," she said, and her
voice sounded less strained and tired. "That chicken sure does smell
good!" She rose and busied herself about the room, setting things in
order upon the reading-table and the shelves. Phoebe was good as gold,
but her housekeeping was a trifle sketchy.

"Ward, he borried some books las' time," Phoebe remarked, lifting the
lid of the stew kettle and letting out a cloud of delicious-smelling
steam. "I dunno what they was. He said he'd bring 'em back nex' time
he come."

"Oh, all right," said Billy Louise, and smiled a little. Even so
slight a thing as borrowed books made another link between them. For a
girl who means to be a mere friend to a man, Billy Louise harbored some
rather dangerous emotions.

She picked up the two letters she had written Ward, brushed off the
dust, and eyed them hesitatingly. It certainly was queer that Ward had
not ridden down for some word from her. She hesitated, then threw the
thin letter into the fire. Its message was no longer of urgent,
poignant need. Billy Louise drew a long breath when the grief-laden
lines crumbled quickly and went flying up the wide throat of the
chimney. The other letter she pinched between her thumbs and fingers.
She smiled a little to herself. Ward would