never, never marry again, for
he's the sort of Old Sobersides who can only love one woman in one
lifetime. And I'm the woman, glory be!

_Tuesday the Twelfth_

Harvest time is here. The stage is cleared, and the last and great act
of the drama now begins. It's a drama with a stage a thousand miles
wide. I can hear through the open windows the rattle of the
self-binders. Olga is driving one, like a tawny Boadicea up on her
chariot. She said she never saw such heads of wheat. This is the first
day's cutting, but those flapping canvas belts and those tireless arms
of wood and iron won't have one-tenth of Dinky-Dunk's crop tied up by
midnight. It is very cold, and Olie has lugubriously announced that it's
sure going to freeze. So three times I've gone out to look at the
thermometer and three times I've said my solemn little prayer: "Dear
God, please don't freeze poor Dinky-Dunk's wheat!" And the Lord heard
that prayer, for a Chinook came about two o'clock in the morning and the
mercury slowly but steadily rose.

_Thursday the Fourteenth_

I had a great deal to talk about to-day. But I can't write much.... I'm
afraid. I dread being alone. I wish I'd been a better wife to my poor
old gold-bricked Dinky-Dunk! But we are what we are, character-kinks and
all. So when he understands, perhaps he'll forgive me. I'm like a
cottontail in the middle of a wheat-patch with the binders going round
and round and every swathe cutting away a little more of my covering.
And there can't be much more hiding away with my secret. But I shall
never openly speak of it. The binder can cut off my feet first, the same
as Olie's did with that mother-rabbit which stood trembling over her
nest of young. Why must life sometimes be so ruthlessly tragic? And why,
oh, why, are women sometimes so absurd? And why should I be afraid of
what every woman who would justify her womanhood must face? Still, I'm
afraid!

_Wednesday the Fifth_

Three long weeks since those last words were written. And what shall I
say, or how shall I begin?

In the first place, everything seemed gray. The bed was gray, my own
arms were gray, the walls looked gray, the window-glass was gray, and
even Dinky-Dunk's face was gray. I didn't want to move, for a long time.
Then I got the strength to tell Mrs. Watson that I wanted to speak to my
husband. She was wrapping something up in soft flannel and purring over
it quite proudly and calling it a blessed li