“She wasn’t fit to live here on the prairie,” said Aunt Ruby, wiping her spectacles with her big checked handkerchief. “She was too young an’ purty an’ frolicksome to be here anyhow. Ezry hed ought ter hev kep’ her in the East, where she was raised, an’ where she could go to parties, an’ put on purty clo’s, an’ dance, an’ so forth. It’s nat’ral for them young gals to dance an’ love fin’ry, jes’ as it’s nat’ral for lambs to skip an’ play in the sunshine. They is born so, an’ I guess the Lord put the right idees into their min’s at the beginnin’. I don’ wan’ ter skip, an’ Sister Mary she don’t wan’ ter neither, we hev got ole an’ stiff by now; but that chile she did wan’ ter, on’y mos’ likely she didn’t know it. Sweet purty little thing, too, she was, it done my eyes good ter look at her. She wasn’t fit for ’Fection City, we hain’t got nothin’ for young folks as don’t care mos’ly to argy ’bout principles, they loves ter be gay. Why, it wasn’t further back nor day ’fore yesterday she come ter my house ’long with that pup o’ hern. My stars, didn’t she laugh when it took ter scootin’ roun’ ’mong my hens! It done me a heap o’ good ter hear her, it was like a silver bell, an’ she hedn’t nothin’ for to amuse her. I think it was downright sinful o’ Brother Ezry to take such a sweet purty little thing ’way from her proper home.” Aunt Ruby ended her long speech with the twin-sob to the one that had escaped from Uncle David. “Sister, you’re a downright good woman,” said he gratefully. The two old people nodded at each other in complete harmony of affection and affliction. A long day passed over Perfection City, a day without any positive news or confirmation of previous rumours. The brethren were full of their various theories in regard to Olive’s disappearance, which they found necessary to discuss and re-discuss over and over again. All work was at a stand-still, for the members congregated at Madame’s house both early and late, as they considered she would be the first to get any news from the outside world. Without a horse they were practically cut off from all communication with the outside, and were entirely dependent on the thoughtfulness of such neighbours as might come to bring them news. It was in the afternoon of the day of the abortive trial at Union Mills that the first authentic tidings reached them. They were talking the matter over together for the fiftieth time when Brother Green was seen coming very hurriedly from his forge along with a stranger, who waited outside the door with an amount of diffidence unusual on the prairie. Brother Green’s grimy face wore a look of alarm. “We’ve got news of them both,” he exclaimed, bursting into the room regardless of ceremony, he who was generally the most heedful of the little forms of politeness. “She has gone after him, and they’ve gone away, and he stole her and said we lent her to him,” said Brother Green distractedly.