wet with rain.

'"You're surely handsome enough for any man," I said, looking her over.

'She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, "Good-bye, dear
house!" and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you
and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I'm particular to tell you.
This house had always been a refuge to her.

'Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and
he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was
trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I didn't like
that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying
she was "well and happy." After that we heard nothing. A month went by,
and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with
me as if I'd picked out the man and arranged the match.

'One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from
the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the
west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and
another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up;
but for all her veils, he thought 'twas Antonia Shimerda, or Antonia
Donovan, as her name ought now to be.

'The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but
my feet ain't what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines
outside the Shimerdas' house was full of washing, though it was the
middle of the week. As we got nearer, I saw a sight that made my
heart sink--all those underclothes we'd put so much work on, out there
swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes,
but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see us. When
I went in, Antonia was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big
washing. Mrs. Shimerda was going about her work, talking and scolding
to herself. She didn't so much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on
her apron and held it out to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When
I took her in my arms she drew away. "Don't, Mrs. Steavens," she says,
"you'll make me cry, and I don't want to."

'I whispered and asked her to come out-of-doors with me. I knew she
couldn't talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded,
and we walked up toward the garden.

'"I'm not married, Mrs. Steavens," she says to me very quiet and
natural-like, "and I ought to be."

'"Oh, my child," says I, "what's happened to you? Don't be afraid to