ld me. He
took me in his arms and kissed my wet eyelids, hugging me up close to
him, until I got quieter. Then I fell asleep. But poor Dinky-Dunk was
awake when I opened my eyes about four, and had been that way for hours.
He was afraid of disturbing me by taking his arm from under my head.
To-day he looks tired and dark around the eyes. But he was up and off
early. There is so much to be done these days! He is putting up a
grub-tent and a rough sleeping-shack for the harvest "hands," so that I
won't be bothered with a lot of rough men about the house here. I'm
afraid I'm an encumbrance, when I should be helping. But they seem to be
taking everything out of my hands.

_Saturday the Second_

I love to watch the wheat, now that it's really turning. It waves like a
sea and stretches off into the distance as far as the eye can follow it.
It's as high as my waist, and sometimes it moves up and down like a
slowly breathing breast. When the sun is low it turns a pure Roman gold,
and makes my eyes ache. But I love it. It strikes me as being glorious,
and at the same time pathetic--I scarcely know why. I can't analyze my
feelings. But the prairie brings a great peace to my soul. It is so
rich, so maternal, so generous. It seems to brood under a passion to
give, to yield up, to surrender all that is asked of it. And it is so
tranquil. It seems like a bosom breathed on by the breath of God.

_Wednesday the Sixth_

It is nearly a year, now, since I first came to Casa Grande. I can
scarcely believe it. The nights are getting very cool again and any time
now there might be a heavy frost. If it should freeze this next week or
two I think my Dinky-Dunk would just curl up and die. Poor boy, he's
working so hard! I pray for that crop every night. I worry about it.
Last night I dreamt it was burnt up in a prairie-fire and woke up
screaming for wet blankets. Dinky-Dunk had to hold me until I got quiet
again. I asked him if he loved me, now that I was getting old and ugly.
He said I was the most beautiful thing God ever made and that he loved
me in a deeper and nobler way than he did a year ago. Then I asked him
if he'd ever get married again, if I should die. He called me silly and
said I was going to live to be eighty, and that a gasoline-tractor
couldn't kill me. But he promised I'd be the only one, whatever
happened. And I believe him. I know Dinky-Dunk would go in black for a
solid year, if I _should_ die, and he'd