There was only one seat, and Bradley took his place beside Ida, while the driver crouched on the bottom of the clattering old democrat wagon. Ida was concerned for him. "Haven't you another seat?" she inquired. "No m'm. I don't need any," he replied, in a slow drawl. "I tried to borrow one from Sam Smalley, but they're all usin' theirs. I'd jest as soon set here." There was something singularly attractive in his voice--a simplicity and candor like a child's, and a suggestion of weakness that went straight to Ida's tender heart. "But you'll get cold." "Oh, no m'm; I'm used to it. Half the time I don't wear no gloves in winter 'less I'm handlin' things with snow on 'em," he said, to reassure her. They moved off down the ravine to the north, the keen wind in their faces. There was no moon, and it was very dark, notwithstanding the light of the stars. "How beautiful the sky is to-night!" said Ida, in a low voice. "Magnificent!" Bradley replied; but he thought of her, not the stars. The team started up, and the worn old seat swayed from side to side so perilously that Bradley with incredible audacity put his arm around, and grasped the end of the seat on the other side of Ida. "I'm afraid you'll fall out," he hastened to explain. She made no reply, and if she smiled he did not know it. They climbed the slope on the other side of the bridge, and entered upon the vast rolling prairie, whose dim swells rose and fell against the stars. The roads were frightful--gullied with rain, and full of bowlders on the hillsides. The darkness added a certain wild charm and mystery to it all. "How lonesome it seems! What a terrible place to live!" said Ida with a shudder. "Civilization hasn't made much of an impress here, that's sure. How long has this prairie been settled?" "'Bout twenty-two years," answered the driver; and, being started, he prattled away, telling the story of his pitiful, tragic life--a life of incessant toil and hardship. Men cheated and trampled upon him; society and government ignored him; science and religion never knew him, and cared nothing for him--and yet this atom bore it all with unapplauded heroism. There was something in his voice which made the hearts of his hearers ache. Ida glanced up at Bradley now and then, at the most dramatic points, and they seemed to grow nearer together in their sympathy. "There's the schoolhouse," said the driver joyously, pointing at a dim red light ahead. They had been riding for nearly an hour across the treeless swells of prairie, and the wind had penetrated their very blood. Ida was shivering, and Bradley was suffering with her out of sympathy. He longed to fold her close in his arms and shield her from the wind.