The paper on the walls showed the first concession of the Puritans to the Spirit of Beauty, and was made up of a heterogeneous mixture of flowers of unheard-of shapes and colors, arranged in four different ways along the wall. There were no books, no music, and only a few newspapers in sight-a bare, blank, cold, drab- colored shelter from the rain, not a home. Nothing cozy, nothing heartwarming; a grim and horrible shed.
"What are they doing? It can't be they're at work such a day as this," Howard said, standing at the window.
"They find plenty to do, even on rainy days," answered his mother.
"Grant always has some job to set the men at. It's the only way to live."
"I'll go out and see them." He turned suddenly. "Mother, why should Grant treat me so? Have I deserved it?"
Mrs. McLane sighed in pathetic hopelessness. "I don't know, Howard. I'm worried about Grant. He gets more an' more downhearted an' gloomy every day. Seem's if he'd go crazy. He don't care how he looks any more, won't dress up on Sunday. Days an' days he'll go aroun' not sayin' a word. I was in hopes you could help him, Howard."
"My coming seems to have had an opposite effect. He hasn't spoken a word to me, except when he had to, since I came.
Mother, what do you say to going home with me to New York?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she cried in terror. "I couldn't live in a big city-never!"
"There speaks the truly rural mind," smiled Howard at his mother, who was looking up at him through her glasses with a pathetic forlornness which sobered him again. "Why, Mother, you could live in Orange, New Jersey, or out in Connecticut, and be just as lonesome as you are here. You wouldn't need to live in the city. I could see you then every day or two."
"Well, I couldn't leave Grant an' the baby, anyway," she replied, not realizing how one could live in New Jersey and do business daily in New York.
"Well, then, how would you like to go back into the old house?" he said, facing her.
The patient hands fell to the lap, the dim eyes fixed in searching glance on his face. There was a wistful cry in the voice.
"Oh, Howard! Do you mean-"
Up The Coulee 93
He came and sat down by her, and put his arm about her and hugged her hard. "I mean, you dear, good, patient, work-wear~ old Mother, I'm going to buy back the old farm and put you in it."
There was no refuge for her now except in tears, and she put up her thin, trembling old hands about his neck and cried in that easy, placid, restful way age has.
Howard could not speak. His throat ached with remorse and pity.
He saw his forgetfulness of them all once more without relief-the black thing it was!
"There, there, Mother, don't cry!" he said, torn with anguish by her tears. Measured by man's tearlessness, her weeping seemed terrible to him. "I didn't realize how things were going here. It was all my fault-or, at least, most of it. Grant's letter didn't reach me. I thought you were still on the old farm. But no matter; it's all over now.
Come, don't cry any more, Mother dear. I'm going to take care of you now."
It had been years since the poor, lonely woman had felt such warmth of love. Her sons had been like her husband, chary of expressing their affection; and like most Puritan families, there was little of caressing among them. Sitting there with the rain on the roof and driving through the trees, they planned getting back into the old house. Howard's plan seemed to her full of splendor and audacity. She began to understand his power and wealth now, as he put it into concrete form before her.
"I wish I could eat Thanksgiving dinner there with you," he said at last, "but it can't be thought of. However, I'll have you all in there before I go home. I'm going out now and tell Grant. Now don't worry any more; I'm going to fix it all up with him, sure." He gave her a parting hug.
Laura advised him not to attempt to get to the barn; but as he persisted in going, she hunted up an old rubber coat for him.
"You'll mire down and spoil your shoes," she said, glancing at his neat calf gaiters.
"Darn the difference!" he laughed in his old way. "Besides, I've got rubbers."
"Better go round by the fence," she advised as he stepped out into the pouring rain.
How wretchedly familiar it all was! The miry cow yard, with the hollow trampled out around the horse trough, the disconsolate hens standing under the wagons and sheds, a pig wallowing across its sty, and for atmosphere the desolate, falling rain. It was so familiar he felt a pang of the old rebellious despair which seized him on such days in his boyhood.
Catching up courage, he stepped out on the grass, opened the gate, and entered the barnyard. A narrow ribbon of turf ran around the fence, on which he could walk by clinging with one hand to the rough boards. In this way he slowly made his way around the periphery, and came at last to the open barn door without much harm.
It was a desolate interior. In the open floorway Grant, seated upon a half-bushel, was mending a harness. The old man was holding the trace in his hard brown hands; the boy was lying on a wisp of hay. It was a small barn, and poor at that. There was a bad smell, as of dead rats, about it, and the rain fell through the shingles here and there. To the right, and below, the horses stood, looking up with their calm and beautiful eyes, in which the whole scene was idealized.
Grant looked up an instant and then went on with his work.
"Did yeh wade through?" grinned Lewis, exposing his broken teeth.
"No, I kinder circumambiated the pond." He sat down on the little toolbox near Grant. "Your barn is good deal like that in 'The Arkansas Traveller.' Needs a new roof, Grant." His voice had a pleasant sound, full of the tenderness of the scene through which he had just been. "In fact, you need a new barn."
"I need a good many things more'n I'll ever get," Grant replied shortly.
"How long did you say you'd been on this farm?"
"Three years this fall."
