When Mary handed him the cup of water she saw that his hand was shaking; but she returned to her baking with the greatest composure. The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the door in vain. "Come out this way," Mary said as sweetly as if she really wanted him to go. She tried to open the outside door, also in vain. Mrs. McGuire had secured it from the outside with a clothes-line prop and a horse nail. The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire's work held good. Then the absurdity of the position struck them both, and the little house rang with their laughter--laughter that washed away the heartaches of the dreary days before. The minister's reserve was breaking down. "Mary," he said, taking her face between his hands, "are you going to marry Horace Clay?" "No," she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest light in hers that ever comes into a woman's face. "Well, then," he said, as he drew her to him, "you are going to marry me." The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled back and the sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into the kitchen. The teakettle, too, on the stove behind them, threw up its lid and burst into a thunder of bubbles. The next time they tried the door it yielded, Mrs. McGuire having made a second barefoot journey. When they came up from the little kitchen, the light ineffable was shining in their faces, but Mrs. McGuire called them back to earth by remarking dryly: "It's just as well I wasn't parchin' for that drink." CHAPTER XXVI THE THANKSGIVING The prairie lay sere and brown like a piece of faded tapestry beneath the November sun that, peering through the dust-laden air, seemed old and worn with his efforts to warm the poor old faded earth. The grain had all been cut and gathered into stacks that had dotted the fields, two by two, like comfortable married couples, and these in turn had changed into billowy piles of yellow straw, through which herds of cattle foraged, giving a touch of life and colour to the unending colourless landscape. The trees stood naked and bare. The gardens where once the corn waved and the hollyhocks flaunted their brazen beauty, now lay a tangled litter of stalks, waiting the thrifty farmer's torch to clear them away before the snow came. The earth had yielded of her fruits and now rested from her labour, worn and spent, taking no thought of comeliness, but waiting in decrepit indifference for her friend, the North Wind, to bring down the swirling snow to hide her scars and heal her unloveliness with its kindly white mantle.