Abbie Deal sat looking out at the family gathered there in the beautiful sun-parlor, sat there with half-closed eyes like an old Buddha looking out on the generations. Eighty years of living were behind her,—most of them spent in fighting,—fighting the droughts, the snows, the hot winds, the prairie fires, the blizzards,—fighting for the children’s physical and mental and spiritual development, fighting to make a civilization on the raw prairie. Bending her back to the toil, hiding her heart’s disappointments, giving her all in service, she was like an old mother partridge who had plucked all the feathers from her breast for the nest of her young.

Old Abbie Deal, so near the borderland now that she held intercourse with both worlds, sat there looking out through half-closed eyes at the children and the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren.

“Well, Will . . . there they all are. What do you think of them? I did the best I could.”

You did well, Abbie-girl.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Grace Deal, in her roadster, went back to summer school early in the morning. John Deal and his family left about the same time for Cedartown. Isabelle and Harrison Rhodes were remaining in Omaha for a few days’ visit at Mack’s, before making the rounds of the other homes. Abbie rode back with Margaret and Dr. Baker.

On the way, Margaret asked: “Don’t you want to go on up to Lincoln with us for a few days, Mother?”

“No. Oh, no,” Abbie said hastily. “I’m tired and I’ll be real glad to get home again.”

When the big car stopped under the Lombardy poplars near the sitting-room porch of the old farmhouse, Margaret got out with her mother and helped her up the short walk to the house.

“I just can’t bear to leave you here alone, Mother. Don’t you want me to stay all night with you? Fred could run out and get me to-morrow or I could go in on the morning train.”

“No. Oh, no. I’m all right. I’m just tired from the excitement. When you’re used to being alone you don’t mind it a bit.”

“Promise me you would call some one on the phone the first minute you didn’t feel well.”

“I promise. I would call Christine. She’s got a phone in now, but she certainly begrudges the money. Anyway, I won’t be alone much more this summer. Isabelle will be here next week, and Grace will be home again soon, and Laura is going to come and stay a few days.”

When they had gone, Abbie Deal opened some of the windows to air out the house. She had a whimsical notion that the things seemed glad to have her back,—the table where old Doc Matthews had rolled his pills, the walnut cupboard, Will’s corner what-not. There was something human about them as though they shared her thoughts,—as though, having come up through the years with her, they held the same memories.

She fed her chickens, watered the sweet-peas, picked the dried leaves off her geraniums, and went over the whole yard as though to greet every bush and shrub after her absence.