Hamstrong's ruddy face turned in on itself a little. "I know. I know the story. I didn't come to take anything away. I came to--good Lord, didn't you _know_ you'd be sent a husband?" Annie's eyes went queer, like a cat's. "A husband?" If they'd told her, she hadn't heard. "Go away," she said. She looked around at her farm, the fruits of her travail--alone. The virgin birth. "No," he said firmly. "It's yours _and_ mine. Legally. I'm not a mean man, Annie. You'll find me patient. But stubborn. I can wait." Annie sighed. Or was it a shudder? She looked up again at the puckering edges of the evening sky. She put down the knife she had been peeling a giant lichen with. She wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the door flap. "All right, then," she said. "Wait." "For what?" "The sandstorm," she said. And she got into the storm cellar and pulled down the weighty lid, locking it behind her. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Virgin Ground, by Rosel George Brown