After Minnie Gully had assured herself that her husband was comfortable and sleeping soundly, she quietly slipped from the room, closing the door that led into the kitchen as she came out for fear that the chatter of the children might disturb him. Clearing away the dishes from the supper table she brought out the letters and papers that had been received that day and carefully reread every line of the letters from home. An occasional smile would brighten her countenance as she came upon some bit of homely advice or some suggestion from her dear old mother, suggestions that would have been applicable to the Minnie Gully of old, the tired, haggard daughter her mother had last seen, but to the robust, cheerful woman she had now grown to be they were amusing. After having read the last of the letters she dropped her hands upon the table before her and sat staring at the open pages, reading between the lines. How plainly she could see the old home, the very room in which this letter was written. 'Twas evening, probably Saturday. Yes, it was Saturday, for there was father's Bible and scattered notes. He had been preparing his sermon for the morrow. His spectacle case was laying on the loose pages. He had got up and moved his chair to the opposite side of the table, and was seated by mother, who with toil stiffened fingers was laborously writing this letter. How plain it all was, and how her heart ached, not from homesickness nor from a desire to see and be with them, but rather to cry out to them and tell them what they had missed. They, in their crowded communities, even in the rural districts, knew nothing of the wild delights of perfect freedom and unlimited space. She had always been crowded; she knew it now. She had never known or felt until now the exhilerating thrills of doing something, doing something worth while. Fighting, yes, that was the word; fighting the elements, doing battle with unadorned nature, free from the artifices of mankind. Oh! if she could only make them understand the inexpressable joy of conquest. The joy of breathing pure air; breathing it out in the open; air that had probably never come in contact with the nostrils of a living creature. Even though the air at times might be laden with sand that stifled and choked, it was dust that had been torn from a virgin soil, and was uncontaminated from having been trodden under foot by a hurrying multitude of human beings. And the mountains--how she loved them--she never tired of their ever changing beauty and grandeur. Still retaining the hold on the letter, Minnie Gully arose from the table, and going to the outside kitchen door, threw it open and stepped out. Not until she was met by the cold air and the blackness of the night did she realize how completely she had been lost to her surroundings.