ennobled as they emerged from the luscious, well fitting sleeves, and
the high collar, with its narrow edge of lace, stressed the nobility of
her fine head. When she came home from church, she did not, as she would
have heretofore, change at once into calico, but protected by a spick
and span white apron, kept on the best frock through dinner and,
frequently, until chore time in the afternoon. In the winter, too, she
was exposed less to sun and wind and her skin lost much of its
weathered look. She took better care of it and was more careful with the
arrangement of her hair. Gradually a new series of impressions began to
register on Martin's brain.

One Sunday she came in fresh and ruddy from the drive home in the cold,
crisp air. Martin found it rather pleasant to watch her brisk movements
as she prepared the delayed meal. He observed, with something of a
mental start, that today, at least, she still had more than a little of
the old sumptuous, full-blown quality. It reminded him, together with
the deft way in which she hurried, without haste, without flurry, of
their first evening in the shack, nearly seven years ago. How tense
they both had been, how afraid of each other, how she had irritated
him! Well, he had grown accustomed to her at last, thanks be. Was
he, perhaps, foolish not to get more out of their life--it was not
improbable that a child might come. Why had he been taking it so for
granted that this was out of the question? When one got right down
to it, just what was the imaginary obstacle that was blocking the
realization of this deep wish? Her chance of not pulling through? He'd
get her a hired girl this time and let her have her own head about
things. She'd made it all right once, why not again? The settledness of
their habitual neutrality? What of it? He would ignore that. It wasn't
as if he had to court her, make explanations. She was his wife. He
didn't love her, never had, never would, but life was too short to be
overly fastidious. It was flying, flying--in a few more years he would
be fifty. Fifty! And what had it all been about, anyway? He did have
this farm to show for his work--he had not made a bad job of that, he
and his Rag-weed. In her own fashion she was a good sort, and better
looking than most women past forty.

Rose felt the closeness of his scrutiny, sensed the unusual cordiality
of his mood, but from the depths of her hardly won wisdom took no
apparent notice of it. She knew well e