t two things. One is the
guardianship of home life, and the other is that curse of modern times
known as money. We haven't prospered as we had hoped to, but heaven
knows I've kept an eagle eye on that savings-account of mine, in that
absurdly new and resplendent red-brick bank in Buckhorn. Patiently
I've fed it with my butter and egg money, joyfully I've seen it grow
with my meager Nitrate dividends, and grimly I've made it bigger with
every loose dollar I could lay my hands on. There's no heroism in my
going without things I may have thought I needed, just as there can be
little nobility in my sticking to a husband who no longer loves me.
For it's not Chaddie McKail who counts now, but her chicks. And I'll
have to look for my reward through them, for I'm like Romanes' rat
now, too big to get into the bottle of cream, but wary enough to know
I can dine from a tail still small enough for insertion. I'm merely a
submerged prairie-hen with the best part of her life behind her.

But it bothers me, what Duncan says about my always thinking of little
Dinkie first. And I'm afraid I do, though it seems neither right nor
fair. I suppose it's because he was my first-born--and having come
first in my life he must come first in my thoughts. I was made to love
somebody--and my husband doesn't seem to want me to love him. So he
has driven me to centering my thoughts on the child. I've got to have
something to warm up to. And any love I may lavish on this
prairie-chick of mine, who has to face life with the lack of so many
things, will not only be a help to the boy, but will be a help to me,
the part of Me that I'm sometimes so terribly afraid of.

Yet I can't help wondering if Duncan has any excuses for claiming that
it's personal selfishness which prompts me to keep my boy close to my
side. And am I harming him, without knowing it, in keeping him here
under my wing? Schools are all right, in a way, but surely a good
mother can do as much in the molding of a boy's mind as a
boarding-school with a file of Ph.D.'s on its staff. But am I a good
mother? And should I trust myself, in a matter like this, to my own
feelings? Men, in so many things, are better judges than women. Yet it
has just occurred to me that all men do not think alike. I've been
sitting back and wondering what kindly old Peter would say about it.
And I've decided to write Peter and ask what he advises. He'll tell
the truth, I know, for Peter is as honest as the day is