gazed
speculatively at the sister she knew she adored.

"Well," she went on presently. "Let us keep to the charge. Five years
ago this spirit of independence and adventure was very strong in Kate
Seton. Far, far stronger than it is now. That's by the way. Say,
anyhow, it was so strong then that when these two found themselves
alone in the world with their money, it was her idea to break through
all convention, leave her little village in New England, go out west,
and seek 'live' men and fortune on the rolling plains of Canada. The
last part of that's put in for effect."

The girl paused, watching her sister as she turned again toward the
valley below.

With a sigh of resignation Helen was forced to proceed. "That's five
years--ago," she said. Then, dropping her voice to a note of pathos,
and with the pretense of a sob: "Five long years ago two lonely girls,
orphans, set out from their conventional home in a New England
village, after having sold it out--the home, not the village--and
turned wistful faces toward the wild green plains of the western
wilderness, the home of the broncho, the gopher, and the merciless
mosquito."

"Oh, do get on," Kate's smile was good to see.

"It's emotion," said Helen, pretending to dab her eyes. "It's emotion
mussing up the whole blamed business, as Nick would say."

"Never mind Nick," cried her sister. "Anyway, I don't think he swears
nearly as much as you make out. I'll soon have to go and get the
Meeting House ready for to-morrow's service. So----"

"Ah, that's just it," broke in Helen, with a great display of triumph
in her laughing eyes. "Five years ago Kate Seton would never have said
that. She'd have said, 'bother the old Meeting House, and all the old
cats who go there to slander each other in--in the name of religion.'
That's what she'd have said. It's all different now. Gone is her love
of adventure; gone is her defiance of convention; gone is--is her
independence. What is she now? A mere farmer, a drudging female,
spinster farmer, growing cabbages and things, and getting her
manicured hands all mussed up, and freckles on her otherwise handsome
face."

"A successful--female, spinster farmer," put in Kate, in her deep,
soft voice.

Helen nodded, and there was a sort of helplessness in her admission.

"Yes," she sighed, "and that's the worst of it. We came to find
husbands--'live' husbands, and we only find--cabbages. The
man-hunters. That's what we called ourselves.