A sense of lightness, such as she had not known for weeks, was upon her. A revival of hope and courage possessed her. This was their own land. They, who had never owned a foot of ground, were now the sole owners of one hundred and sixty acres. Rich soil, too, Will said,—black and rich. A farm of their own upon which to make a home,—a home for Mack,—and one other! She wondered, as all mothers have wondered, which the new baby would be. And could not quite determine, as all mothers have been not quite able to determine, which she rather it would be. A boy would be the nicer for one reason,—he could be a chum for Mack. But a little girl,—down in her heart she hoped it would be a little girl. She remembered what she had said to her mother in the old cabin loft, back home. “Some day we may have a little girl. We will be rich then and she can wear the pearls.” Well, maybe the baby would be a girl,—here was the good black soil upon which to get rich,—and over in the wagon were the pearls. She and Will were young. Life was all before them. With neighbors not far away, it was not going to be so lonely. Sarah Lutz—already she loved Sarah. And Christine Reinmueller,—even though Christine was so “Dutchy,” she was kind hearted. Their own land, two babies, youth, neighbors! No, life here was not going to be so bad.

She raised her head to the cloudless September sky.

“Oh, the Lady of the Lea,

Fair and young and gay was she,”

Her voice rose clear, full-throated, mature.

“Dreamed of visions longingly,

The Lady of the Lea.”

Yes, she and Will would soon be wealthy. Will had said so. Youth, babies, friends, wealth! She put the joy of it into melody:

“When she held in bower or hall

Banquet high or festival,

On every side her glance would fall . . .”

A crow, flying above her, wheeled and dipped down toward her, “Caw! Caw!” it threw down at her saucily. Abbie broke off singing.

“Were you jeering at me?” she called after the vagrant wanderer.

“Caw! caw!” it threw back raucously.

Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was a bad sign. Grandma Deal would have said it was. Then she threw back her head and laughed. Oh, well, she was young. Her voice wouldn’t run away and leave her. In a little while she could get to a teacher somewhere,—over the prairie to Nebraska City or back to Plattsmouth, or perhaps even up to Omaha some day.

As she started back to the prairie schooner, with the song unfinished, a long, slimy, gruesome Thing slipped, belly-flat, through the grass. Abbie shuddered and scrambled into the sheltering wagon.

The rough edges of the black sod of the house were now treated to a thick coat of mud plaster and a board floor laid. The low partition, over which she could hang clothes, and the crude board door, Abbie papered with hoop-skirted feminine paragons of style out of Godey’s Ladies’ Book, from which vantage point they looked down upon the humble interior with supercilious pride.