“I can imagine many a worse one,” replied Madame, looking out from among the few bare trees away across the open prairie. “What could be worse?” “Well, for example, to know that someone you loved did not love you. To have to shut up your heart within iron doors, and never open them to let it out. That would be worse than to be denied the power of speech, which after all can now be supplemented in many ways by artificial means. Brother Huntley is not actively unhappy, I should judge. He and his wife have always appeared to me to be a very united couple.” “They cannot quarrel, at all events,” said Olive. “No, not, at least, in the ordinary way,” replied Madame. When Brother Dummy awoke after his little snooze, he got up, looked at the sun to see what time of day it was, and then signed to Napoleon Pompey to rouse up. That young person was lethargic, owing to his anaconda-like meal, accordingly Brother Dummy roused him with his foot. The darkie rolled over and said “Yah!” and started for the horses, who were nodding over their corn-cobs, now nibbled down to the smallest dimensions. Olive, whose resentment at the slight put upon Napoleon Pompey by Mary Winkle urged her to identify herself with the negro boy, walked away with him and Brother Dummy to watch the hitching up. Madame employed herself in throwing scraps of bread to Balthasar, who would have much preferred eating the chicken bones, only that was a debauch not permitted to a dog of his manners. Mary Winkle looked hopelessly along those weary furrows, up and down which it would be her duty to march again, dropping her seeds of corn as before. “Are you going to work all the afternoon?” she asked of her companion. “Yes, I think so. We shall get this field planted and covered in by sun-down, I should think. And that will be a great piece of work done. We cannot afford to let the individualists beat us at corn planting, can we? We must do at least as well as they, and I should hope we might do better.” “I don’t know how you can stand so much heat and hard work,” said Mary, “and in that dress too. Why, if I were to attempt to work in long skirts I should be dead in a week.” “I don’t mind my dress at all,” said Madame. “It never bothers me. I don’t think about it.” “But don’t you think about it when your back aches?” “It never does.” “I don’t understand it,” says Mary once more. “I suspect that the reason you American women find your dress such a burden is because you are so weak yourselves,” said Madame. “American women accomplish as much or more than any others, I should say,” observed Mary. “Precisely, but not from their muscular strength. They work out of their nerves, and that is why they never last any length of time.”