he still more arid foot-hills. The westward movement of the
Middle Border for the time seemed at an end.

My father, Jessie told me, was now cultivating more than five hundred
acres of land, and deeply worried, for his wheat was thin and light and
the price less than sixty cents per bushel.

It was nearly sunset as we approached the farm, and a gorgeous sky was
overarching it, but the bare little house in which my people lived
seemed a million miles distant from Boston. The trees which my father
had planted, the flowers which my mother had so faithfully watered, had
withered in the heat. The lawn was burned brown. No green thing was in
sight, and no shade offered save that made by the little cabin. On every
side stretched scanty yellowing fields of grain, and from every worn
road, dust rose like smoke from crevices, giving upon deep-hidden
subterranean fires. It was not a good time to bring a visitor to the
homestead, but it was too late to retreat.

Mother, grayer, older, much less vigorous than she had been two years
before, met us, silently, shyly, and I bled, inwardly, every time I
looked at her. A hesitation had come into her speech, and the indecision
of her movements scared me, but she was too excited and too happy to
admit of any illness. Her smile was as sweet as ever.

Dr. Cross quietly accepted the hot narrow bedroom which was the best we
could offer him, and at supper took his place among the harvest help
without any noticeable sign of repugnance. It was all so remote, so
characteristic of the border that interest dominated disgust.

He was much touched, as indeed was I, by the handful of wild roses which
father brought in to decorate the little sitting-room. "There's nothing
I like better," he said, "than a wild rose." The old trailer had
noticeably softened. While retaining his clarion voice and much of his
sleepless energy, he was plainly less imperious of manner, less harsh of
speech.

Jessie's case troubled me. As I watched her, studied her, I perceived
that she possessed uncommon powers, but that she must be taken out of
this sterile environment. "She must be rescued at once or she will live
and die the wife of some Dakota farmer," I said to mother.

Again I was disturbed by the feeling that in some way my own career was
disloyal, something built upon the privations of my sister as well as
upon those of my mother. I began definitely to plan their rescue. "They
must not spend the rest of their da