NEXT morning early I left my wife sleeping and went to find flowers for her. While looking for them, I said to myself every moment: “You are married!” and the thought filled me with such delight, that I raised my eyes to the Lord of Hosts, thanking Him for having permitted me to live to the time in which a man becomes himself genuinely and rounds out his life with the life of another loved beyond all. I had something now of my own in the world, and though that canvas-covered wagon was my only house and hearth, I felt richer at once, and looked at my previous wandering lot with pity, and with wonder that I could have lived in that manner hitherto. Formerly it had not even come to my head what happiness there is in that word “wife,”—happiness which called to my heart’s blood with that name, and to the best part of my own soul. For a long time I had so loved Lillian that I saw the whole world through her only, connected everything with her, and understood everything only as it related to her. And now when I said “wife,” that meant, mine, mine forever; and I thought that I should go wild with delight, for it could not find place in my head, that I, a poor man, should possess such a treasure. What then was lacking to me? Nothing. Had those prairies been warmer, had there been safety there for her, had it not been for the obligation to lead people to the place to which I had promised to lead them, I was ready not to go to California, but to settle even in Nebraska, if with Lillian. I had been going to California to dig gold, but now I was ready to laugh at the idea. “What other riches can I find there, when I have her?” I asked myself. “What do we care for gold? See, I will choose some canyon, where there is spring all the year; I will cut down trees for a house, and live with her, and a plough and a gun will give us life. We shall not die of hunger—” These were my thoughts while gathering flowers, and when I had enough of them I returned to the camp. On the road I met Aunt Atkins. “Is the little one sleeping?” asked she, taking from her mouth for a moment the inseparable pipe. “She is sleeping,” answered I. To this Aunt Atkins, blinking with one eye, added,— “Ah, you rascal!” Meanwhile the “little one” was not sleeping, for we both saw her coming down from the wagon, and shielding her eyes against the sunlight with her hand, she began to look on every side. Seeing me, she ran up all rosy and fresh, as the morning. When I opened my arms, she fell into them panting, and putting up her mouth, began to repeat:— “Dzien dobry! dzien dobry! dzien dobry!” Then she stood on her toes, and looking into my eyes, asked with a roguish smile, “Am I your wife?” What was there to answer, except to kiss without end and fondle? And thus passed the whole time at that meeting of rivers, for old Smith had taken on himself all my duties till the resumption of our journey.