w! I sometimes say I'd as lief be _before_ Mrs. Ericson as
behind her. She does beat all! Nearly seventy, and never lets
another soul touch that car. Puts it into commission herself every
morning, and keeps it tuned up by the hitch-bar all day. I never
stop work for a drink o' water that I don't hear her a-churnin' up
the road. I reckon her darter-in-laws never sets down easy nowadays.
Never know when she'll pop in. Mis' Otto, she says to me: 'We're so
afraid that thing'll blow up and do Ma some injury yet, she's so
turrible venturesome.' Says I: 'I wouldn't stew, Mis' Otto; the old
lady'll drive that car to the funeral of every darter-in-law she's
got.' That was after the old woman had jumped a turrible bad
culvert."

The stranger heard vaguely what the old man was saying. Just now he
was experiencing something very much like homesickness, and he was
wondering what had brought it about. The mention of a name or two,
perhaps; the rattle of a wagon along a dusty road; the rank,
resinous smell of sunflowers and ironweed, which the night damp
brought up from the draws and low places; perhaps, more than all,
the dancing lights of the motor that had plunged by. He squared his
shoulders with a comfortable sense of strength.

The wagon, as it jolted westward, climbed a pretty steady upgrade.
The country, receding from the rough river valley, swelled more and
more gently, as if it had been smoothed out by the wind. On one of
the last of the rugged ridges, at the end of a branch road, stood a
grim square house with a tin roof and double porches. Behind the
house stretched a row of broken, wind-racked poplars, and down the
hill-slope to the left straggled the sheds and stables. The old man
stopped his horses where the Ericsons' road branched across a dry
sand creek that wound about the foot of the hill.

"That's the old lady's place. Want I should drive in?"

"No, thank you. I'll roll out here. Much obliged to you. Good
night."

His passenger stepped down over the front wheel, and the old man
drove on reluctantly, looking back as if he would like to see how
the stranger would be received.

As Nils was crossing the dry creek he heard the restive tramp of a
horse coming toward him down the hill. Instantly he flashed out of
the road and stood behind a thicket of wild plum bushes that grew in
the sandy bed. Peering through the dusk, he saw a light horse, under
tight rein, descending the hill at a sharp walk. The rider was a