Abbie, standing at the door and watching one of these bedraggled-looking outfits pass, said bitterly to Will, “When do you think our time is coming? Look at the clouds, Will. Even the clouds seem always going east.”

Will did not answer. He turned on his heel and went down to the straw-covered dug-out which served as a barn. Watching him go, in his faded blue shirt and overalls with their many patchings, and his dingy old hat, Abbie called to her mind the fine figure he had made in his wedding suit,—fine enough to draw the attention of any exacting young woman. Ten years ago! And the minister at home had said you could do anything with your life. But that was not so. Life did things to you. Ten years! Small wonder that love would break under circumstances like these. Standing there in the soddie door, she seemed two personalities. One argued bitterly that it was impossible for love to keep going when there was no hope for the future, suggested that there was no use trying to keep it going. The other said sternly that marriage was not the fulfillment of a passion,—marriage was the fulfillment of love. And love was sometimes pleasure and sometimes duty.

“You traitor,” she said suddenly to herself, “You Judas! As though hard luck could kill my love for Will! Will’s not to blame. It’s a fine love that a little bad luck can smother! It can’t touch it . . . it can’t. Love is the light that you see by. It’s all in the world we’ve got to light our way, and it takes both of us to keep it bright. And I’m not doing my share . . . I’m not. I’m glum and sad and discouraged. And I’m not going to be any more. There are only two things that can help us,—and that’s our courage and our love. From this very minute on I’m going to try to cheer Will up more. I’m through being down-hearted.”

She turned to the children. They were all around the table looking at a little picture Margaret had drawn. Margaret was always drawing. Abbie ran to them, closed warm maternal arms around all three, and bumped them together in a return of girlish spirits, so that they laughed at her unusual playfulness, their faces sparkling because Mother was full of fun. How readily they responded to all her moods. And how careful she must be with those childish impressions.

“You shall wear them, Margaret,” she kissed her little daughter, “you shall wear them yet.”

“Wear what, Mother?”

“The pearls.”

“What are pearls, Mother?”

“Wait . . . I’ll show you.”

She got it from under the bed,—the old calf-skin box, and the children gathered close with excited anticipation. She took the pearls out and ran them through her fingers.

“Oh, Mother . . . the pretty beads!” Margaret’s gray eyes glowed.

“Shucks, I’d rather have a watch,” from the masculine Mack. Little John was not even interested.