ou are! It generates a tornado and That is the
Thing that rends the Universe."

Seth had listened to these stories undismayed; for what had they to do
with his ranch and the Magic City upon which it was to be built?

A cyclone would never come to the forks of two rivers. The Indians had
said so.

Tradition had it that an old squaw whose name was Wichita had
bewitched the spot with her incantations, defying the wind to touch
the ground on which she had lived and died.

It must have been that this old squaw still occupied the spot, that
her phantom still stooped over seething kettles, or stalked abroad in
the darkness, or chanted dirges to the slap and pat of the grim war
dance of the Indians; for the winds, growing frightened, had let the
forks of the river alone.

Seth was very careful to relate this to Celia, to reiterate it to this
fearful Celia who started up so wildly out of her sleep at the
maniacal shriek of the wind. Very tenderly he whispered the
reassurance and promise of protection against every blast that blew,
thus soothing her softly back to slumber, after which he lay awake,
watching her lest she wake again and wishing he might still the
Universe while she slept.

He redoubled his care of her by night and by day, doing the work of
the dugout before he began the work of the fields, not only bending
over the tubs early in the morning for fear such bending might hurt
her, but hanging out the clothes on the line for fear the fierce and
vengeful wind might tan her beautiful complexion and tangle the fine
soft yellow of her hair.

For the same reason, he brought in the clothes after the day's labor
was over, and ironed them. He also did the simple cooking in order to
protect her beauty from blaze of log and twinkle of twig.

If he could he would have hushed the noise of the world for love of
her.

And yet, day after day, coming home from his work in the fields, he
found her at the door of their dugout, peering after the east-bound
train, trailing so far away as to seem a toy train, with a look of
longing that struck cold to his heart.

His affection counted as nothing. His care was wasted. In spite of
which he was full of apologies for her.

Other women, making these crude caves into homes for themselves and
their children, had found contentment, but they were women of a
different fibre.

He would not have her of a different and coarser fibre, this exquisite
Southern creature, charming, delicate