May 30, 2017

Caleb James' Birth Story-- Safe in His Hands


Caleb,

As I write this you are curled up on my arm making soft little baby sounds as you eat yourself to sleep. It is spring outside and the grass is green. Little leaves  are coming out on the trees and the early flowers are blooming. It's the time for new life and your life is new. You are just almost two months old and I revel in your freshness--your delicate little fingers that curl around mine, the silky softness of your baby hair.. Already you are growing and changing. You can pick up your own head and you open those dark blue eyes for longer and longer periods of time. I feel every mother's conflicted struggle between wanting you to grow and wishing you could stay small forever. 

This is the story of your coming to our family. You will hear it time and again, but this written version will be one you can slowly understand more and deeper until, should time last, you hold your own little miracle in your arms and you know fully what it is to love and to be afraid of losing.

You were a planned and prayed for baby. For weeks I prayed and waited and when I finally held the positive pregnancy test in my hand little happy butterflies danced in my stomach and I felt that I would burst from the joy. You were the hardest secret I ever kept, and I often wondered if my happy smile was giving away the news that you were on your way.


The months that you grew inside me were happy months even though they were very hard. My body was very sick and uncomfortable and it was a struggle to eat and to sleep, but always I was happy because it meant you were coming.

I felt you kick me the first time when your daddy took me to Niagara Falls for our anniversary. It was such a soft little tap, but it thrilled me. A couple weeks later your daddy could feel you too, and you seemed to know his voice because you would often kick more when he talked to you. One night you made us laugh when he laid his head on my belly and you kicked him right in the jaw!

I prepared so much for the day you would be born. I wasn't afraid, because I knew my body had been made to birth you and I knew it would do a wonderful job. I wanted to birth you at home in the quiet of our dining room, with the lights dim and a warm tub of water to welcome you in. 

The doctors checked you on the ultrasound machine and you were growing perfect and beautiful. Our doctor was very supportive of you being born at home, and our midwife, Laura, was excited to meet you.

You kept growing and growing and your kicks got stronger and stronger. The third trimester came around and you were right on target for what your weight and growth should be. But I wasn't doing so well. Besides the constant heartburn and the aches and pains that kept me awake at night, I developed a very intense itching. I would scratch and scratch until my skin was red and raw and nothing would relieve it. I thought at first that it was just another normal pregnancy symptom, but I had heard that it could be a symptom for a somewhat rare pregnancy complication called cholestasis and so I asked Laura about it. Laura helped me try a few things to narrow down other alternatives and when none of her suggestions helped she became very concerned. She pushed me to get some bloodwork done immediately.

The bloodwork came back positive in a couple days and by my Monday morning doctors appointment I had been diagnosed with Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy. What that meant was that the hormones from the pregnancy weren't letting bile flow out of my liver, so it was being released into my bloodstream instead. Normal range for bile salts in the blood is less than 10. Mine were 76! Our doctor was very concerned because she had never seen anyone with levels that high and she was worried about what all that bile would do to you. She gently but matter-of-factly explained that there was a high possibility that if you weren't born by 37 weeks you might not make it. Most times babies like you whose moms have cholestasis show some signs of distress when things are not well. The heartbeat begins to slow but there is a little time to do an emergency procedure and save the baby. Other times, the bile seems to essentially give the baby a heart attack and their hearts just stop beating with no warning.


As we left the doctors office, I couldn't stop thinking about you, helpless and dependent on me to nourish you and help you grow. And I was very afraid that I would fail to give you the thing you needed most--life. It hurt me so much to know that the stream of life I was sending to your little body was poisoned and that my own body was putting you in danger. The tears flowed and flowed and I couldn't stop them.

Your daddy took me to eat at Olive Garden and then we went shopping. I wandered the aisles feeling numb, looking at deals and letting my mind just process all the thoughts. Whenever I would think of you the tears would come again and your daddy would just hold me there in the middle of Hobby Lobby and Target. I fell in love with your daddy more that day than I ever had before. He was such a strong rock for you and I. We bought some decorations for your nursery and a little preemie outfit for you to wear--symbols of our hope that you would be alright. All that long afternoon you slept and didn't kick me a single time, and all afternoon I cried, wondering if I had felt you for the last time. Finally that evening you kicked again and I cried again in relief as you kicked away all night long.

I felt so helpless. There was literally nothing that I could do to fix my body and make it safe for you. But it was in those long, sleepless, dark nights that I fully surrendered you into Jesus hands. Hands that took nails for you. Hands that would carry you safely and hold you tight. Hands that will lead and guide you better than your daddy or I could ever do. You were safe in those hands I knew, because those hands were carrying me too and they were good and strong and kind. Your aunty Lisa sent me a text of Isaiah 40:11, "He shall feed his flock like a shepherd, he shall gather the lambs with his arm and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young." Those words were precious words that played over and over in my mind and brought so much peace.

We were going to see a specialist in two days who would help us decide when we should have you. Our doctor had told us that we shouldn't be surprised if he thought it was best to have you immediately since the bile levels were so high. We spent the next two days preparing for your arrival just in case. Your nursery hadn't been set up at all so there was plenty to do. Your Grandma and Grandpa Johns got in their car and started driving up to Michigan the next day, and your Oma Wanda worked a window into her very busy schedule so she could come too. Your Grandma Irene changed her ticket to come a couple weeks earlier than planned.

Everyone was praying for you. The pastor's wives in Michigan were some of the first to know and they poured out so much love and support. Then I posted my blog about it and messages began pouring in from all over. People were praying for you all over the world. You got put on several church-wide prayer chains of people who didn't even know us, but who cared and prayed and sent encouragement. I walked in the strength of those prayers when I could hardly even pray myself. The love carried me until I got my feet under me again and could look at the situation objectively and rationally once more.

The specialist was very reassuring. He did another ultrasound and there you were, beautiful and perfect and kicking. He told us that he had seen many cases of this and had never lost a baby yet. With his help we decided to wait a couple weeks to give you the most time to grow that we could. We monitored you closely during that time so that we would know if you went into distress. It was scary, but it was the best for you.

Miraculously, when we saw our doctor again the next week, she told us that the bile levels in my blood had dropped! From 76 they dropped all the way to 20. She said that she had never heard of that happening before. This was such good news! It meant that you were in a lot less danger. We can only assume that this was an answer to the prayers that were being offered for you. 


Everything about your birth was different from what I had planned and wanted. Instead of the quiet, relaxed and calm home birth, I had to be induced and I was hooked up with all sorts of wires and monitors that were uncomfortable. The wire that was monitoring the strength of my contractions got kinked and wasn't reading properly but no one realized it until the very end of the day so they thought I wasn't having hard enough contractions and they kept putting the pitocin level up until it was too much for me to take. I tried so hard to relax and let the contractions do their job, and for a while I could control the pain with breathing and relaxation techniques. But there reached a point where my body began to fight the pitocin and I was powerless to do anything. The pain skyrocketed out of control and I begged for drugs and finally an epidural. I had wanted so badly to go without drugs because I wanted to have a clear mind for those first moments with you, but it didn't happen that way. I am so glad that I got the epidural though because it relaxed me enough that my body stopped fighting the contractions, and it finally began to open up to let you be born.

I had practiced all the most natural positions for birthing you, but with the epidural none of them were possible. I pushed you out on my back--a position I never would have chosen, and the nurses had to tell me when to push because I couldn't feel the contractions. 

I had spent hours researching how to prevent tearing, and I certainly didn't want an episiotomy (being cut by the doctor) because they are more difficult to heal from. But you came out with your sweet little hand beside your head and you tore me wide open and the doctor and Laura both said it looked just like an episiotomy.

I was shaking uncontrollably as a side effect from the pitocin as you were born, and I was so exhausted from pushing and loopy from the drugs that I was scarcely aware of anything, but I held you and cried tears of relief that it was over. And everything was ok and all the pain was worth it because you were here and you were alive and everything was ok.

Everything I had tried to plan and control didn't happen the way I wanted and it was God's reminder to me, yet again, that He was in charge. You were in His hands, not mine, and you had the birth He chose for you. And it was all ok.


You weren't quite ok yet though. You laid on my chest and cried thin little whimpers and made little grunting noises instead of loud, lusty cries. They took you to the nursery to put you on oxygen instead of keeping you in the room with me.

The next morning I went to see you, and touch your little belly as you struggled to breathe. You were breathing at a rate of around 120 respirations per minute and your doctor wanted to transfer you to the NICU at another hospital. The alveoli in your lungs weren't fully inflated as they should be, and they needed some extra help.


A team came to transfer you. They put you in a little isolette on a big gurney and put wires and monitors all over you. Your face was covered by a CPAP tube and you looked so very little and small and helpless there. They wheeled you out and put you in an ambulance and took you away to the NICU.

Your daddy and I felt so scared for you. You were covered in so many tubes you looked like spaghetti. The machines you were hooked up to were beeping and wheezing and there you were in the middle of it all with your little chest heaving up and down so fast. So very fast. And again, we had to simply trust you to the kind and loving hands of Jesus. He had created your lungs, only He could make them function right.


Jesus helped you progress quickly. After 24 hours they took you off the big CPAP tube and we could see your little face so much better. The next day you were able to get off the IV.

You hated the wires and the tubes on your face and kept tugging at them. You would get mad and your little face would scrunch up when you couldn't pull them off. Finally you succeeded in ripping out your feeding tube right out of your nose. Lucky for you, they decided to see how you did without it, and you figured out how to eat on your own just fine. 


After five days the doctors said you were strong enough to come home, and we were so happy when we got to take all the wires off and put you in your little car seat for the first time and bring you home.

And now you're strong and healthy and cracking your first little smiles and cooing at us and it's so easy to forget that it all happened. But I never want to forget. I want to always remember the sacredness of those dark nights when I gave you up to Someone who loves you more than I ever could. I never want to forget that you're His and not mine, and that I'm just a caretaker to train you and lead you to your true Father.


I'm not going to be a perfect mama, Caleb. I'm going to misunderstand and make promises I can't keep, and miss opportunities and be inconsistent sometimes.. but I'm going to do my best to love you. You are the best gift I've ever been given and I treasure you.

You are beginning a life that isn't going to be easy. You're going to get scraped knees and bruises. You're going to get bug bites and cat scratches. You will face peer pressure and bullies and mean girls who will treat you bad because they secretly like you and then as you get older they may hurt your heart with a pain far worse than any skinned knee. You will suffer being falsely accused and misunderstood. You will struggle because life on this earth is a struggle. But in those moments of struggle, I want you to know that you have a friend Who is carrying you and helping you. He understands when no one else on earth does. He will give you strength and power. You will soar on eagles wings when you are surrendered to Him. He'll be there for you.

I know, because He's been carrying you from before you were even born.

March 18, 2017

Let it Rain


Wednesday. It hasn't been an easy day. The morning started at the hospital with a needle poked in my arm filling little tubes labeled "ALT/AST" (liver function test) and "Bile Salts." Every part of my body itched with an intensity that made me wish I could strip off my clothing and fling myself into the 14 degree morning air to soothe it.

As the sun rose, the morning landscape flooded with light, turning the fresh-fallen snow into a spectacular winter wonder scene, but it felt heavy to me. Cloudy-- in spite of the clear blue sky.

It isn't long after my husband leaves for the day that the cloud breaks and the tears flow.

I can't even explain the tears. (Who ever can?)

Are they uncertainty? Fear? Anger? Crazy pregnant lady hormones? All of the above?

I don't know. All I know are the words welling up inside. A silent scream.

I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this.

I wanted to be having a normal, healthy pregnancy. I wanted to still be planning and preparing for a relaxed home birth, free of complications, IV's, pitocin, and beeping hospital monitors. I wanted to be blissfully assured that my little kicking baby boy was perfectly safe and protected and not at risk of having my own body cut his life short. I wanted all the research articles I had poured over during the last week to be wrong. I wanted Intraheptic Cholestasis of Pregnancy* to once again be a rare and freakish complication that I had never heard of. I wanted the exasperating itch to be an allergic reaction, or the simple "normal pregnancy thing" that women online condescendingly told me it was.

I drive myself to the church for mid-afternoon prayer meeting, wiping my eyes and putting on a well-practiced game face. This uncertainty is too close, too vulnerable to share. I hide my emotions even from my husband, preferring the privacy and isolation of my own conflicted mind. I smile, I participate, I laugh. I do the pastor's wife thing. And I get back in my car and silent-sob into my steering wheel as I drive away.

I don't want this.

Phrases like "It'll all work out," "Everything happens for a reason" and "God is in control" feel empty and dismissive. I believe them in theory, but they aren't speaking to me.

The air is still icy cold as I get out of the car back at home. The thermometer is hovering somewhere around 25, but I linger outside, relishing the relief the cold brings to my itching skin.

And then I see it. A lone cluster of green in the sea of white snow.

Daffodils braving the elements, pushing their tender little shoots up in spite of winter storm Stella's worst.


The words of a childhood song come to mind and I begin to hum.

Little flowers never worry when the wind begins to blow,
And they never, never cry, when the rain begins to fall.
Oh, it's wet and oh, so cold.
Soon the sun will shine again,
And they'll smile unto the world, for their beauty to behold.

So let it rain, let it rain, let it pour.
Let old trouble keep on knocking at my door...
If it never, never rains,
Then we'll never, never grow.

As He has so faithfully done a thousand times in my life, God pulls me out of the self-centered mess of my own mind and reminds me of the big picture.

This isn't a surprise to Him.
Nor is it a punishment.

It's a gift. Lovingly prepared and shipped straight from Heaven.

To bless me. To help me grow.

I need this trial. This blessing. This gift.

I don't know why. I don't know quite what I'll use it for, or when, but I know it's a good gift, and useful for its purpose because its from my Father and He only sends the very best.

The tears are flowing again, but the anger is gone from them.

I whisper a barely audible thank you and turn from the daffodils to embrace the rest of my day.

Thank you daffodils for being brave and uncomplaining and showing me the way.
And thank you, kind, caring Father...




I truly have so much to be grateful for.

I had a smooth and easy diagnosis to a complication that in 40% of cases doesn't show up on the test, making it difficult for women to get their doctors to take them seriously. My doctor took me seriously immediately and has been nothing but supportive.
I have a great team of medical professionals taking care of me, and a wonderful midwife who gave me the push to get it checked earlier than I would have on my own.
I "just so happened" to read about this very complication two weeks before the itch started, helping me recognize the symptoms and ask about them instead of dismissing or ignoring them.

And most likely, I'll get to hold my healthy little miracle boy a month earlier than I would have otherwise and all will be well.

Or maybe not.

Maybe God only lent him to us for 34 weeks. I can't presume to know. We certainly wouldn't be the only ones who have been called to that severe of a test.

But I do know, that this test too, somehow and some way, would be a gift of love-- difficult as it would be to unwrap.

If it never, never rained, then we'd never, never grow.


(*ICP is a rare complication caused by pregnancy hormones obstructing the flow of bile and causing it to instead be leaked into the bloodstream. It has little consequence to the mother in most cases, but increases the risk of stillbirth in the infant significantly in the later weeks of pregnancy. The standard procedure of treatment is to induce by 37 weeks. We are thankful to have caught this early enough to be able to monitor our little boy and hopefully deliver him at the best and safest time. Prayers are coveted and appreciated.)

August 11, 2016

His Legacy

The room was still dark when she peered through blurred eyes at the bedside clock. Disoriented, she stared first at the window, then at the ceiling tiles, watching the details slowly come into focus. It was several moments before she thought to wonder why she had been awakened. Shifting herself onto her other side, she saw that the sheets beside her were empty. The form of her husband was silhouetted against the faint light of the window. His kneeling form clutched the side of the bed and he emitted a soft murmur now and again as he wrestled in prayer.

Smiling, she closed her eyes and slipped back into a peaceful sleep. An hour and a half later she awakened again as he slipped back into bed. "Which one were you praying for tonight?" she queried.

"Margie. She's on my heart."

It was a nightly routine for him. Each of his ten children were specifically prayed for in turn. Night after night he pled with the Almighty for his kids. Every challenge, every concern, every joy or sorrow, was talked through with the Lord. He prayed for every endeavor that they undertook, and asked the Lord to keep them faithful. 

And the effects of those prayers live on today. 

All 10 of his children stayed strong in the Lord, raised godly children, and lived out sacrificial lives of service. His daughter Ruthie only recently retired from serving as the prayer coordinator for the General Conference. 

Pastors, missionaries, camp directors, conference workers, literature evangelists, teachers, faithful parents-- the list goes on. The number of lives and souls touched by his descendants would be impossible to count.

And as I stand here, young and green, and humbled to carry on the ministry of service to the next generation, I can't help but think of my great-grandfather's prayers for my Grandma Margie that night and be thankful that, in a small way, I was included in them. This legacy of prayer is a greater treasure to me than any legacy of fame or money could ever have been (had he had those to give.)

I look around me, as I write this here at a ministerial retreat at Camp Au Sable in Michigan, I see a second-cousin Pastor newly ordained on one side and another second-cousin and her husband serving as co-directors of the camp on the other. They are both raising children who love Jesus and are already serving others in their own sweet little ways.

I wish Grandpa Budd could be here to see the results of those prayers he prayed all those dark morning hours so long ago. I wish I could go back in time and tell him that Jesus was hearing him and that the petitions he desired were granted him. I wish I could tell him that his effectual, fervent prayer was availing much, much more than he ever dreamed.

But somehow I feel like he already knew. I think he took God's word and stood on those promises, knowing that what he could not see was fact. All great prayer warriors do.

And my heart burns to carry on his legacy-- not just the legacy of ministry and service, and remaining a part of the Seventh-day Adventist Church-- but the legacy of intercessory prayer. The legacy of believing in promises and praying as though I have received the things for which I am asking because He said so.

And let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.

June 4, 2016

Michigan

Written two weeks ago and forgot to post.
--------

So this is it.

This is Michigan.

Sun-toasted sand and lapping waves and just-right sunshine.
We came the right week, they said.

I stand at the waters edge just close enough for the icy water to soothe my burning soul. For the first time in far too many days, the pressure begins to melt away.

"Waves of peace" couldn't be a more cliche metaphor but I seem to understand it for the first time standing here with the waves breaking on my toes and lapping away at the massive stone heart in my chest. The sound of each crest seems to carry a deeper flush of peace and I finally begin to let myself believe that it's ok to relax.

No more office tasks waiting on Monday. No more schedules to make. No more hordes of important details to remember. No more complaints to field.

For two weeks it's just me and a beach and the satisfying pleasure of turning a house into a home.

And at the end of those two weeks I will be a pastor's wife. And with it will come a whole new set of pressures and expectations and late nights and busy weekends. And Jesus will be faithful to give the needed grace to meet those pressures when they come. He always is.

But that's not today.

Today I'm just a tired little girl on a beach talking to Jesus. And the still small voice never sounded sweeter.
 

February 26, 2016

When Queens Ride By

This is quite a bit out of the norm for me to post on this blog, but I felt the need to share it.

Few stories have ever moved me like this one. From the first time I read it as a bratty, smart-mouthed 12-year-old, I have found myself peering longingly through Jennie's weary eyes at the heavenly glory of pure, feminine womanhood. It still grips me in the deepest well of my soul and compels me with an inner urge to live up to my calling and be a queen.


When Queens Ride By 
by Agnes Slight Turnbull, 1888

Jennie Musgrave woke at the shrill rasp of the alarm clock as she always woke—with the shuddering start and a heavy realization that the brief respite of the night's oblivion was over. She had only time to glance through the dull light at the cluttered, dusty room, before John's voice was saying sleepily as he said every morning, "All right, let's go. It doesn't seem as if we'd been in bed at all!"
Jennie dressed quickly in the clothes, none too clean, that, exhausted, she had flung from her the night before. She hurried down the back stairs, her coarse shoes clattering thickly upon the bare boards. She kindled the fire in the range and then made a hasty pretense at washing in the basin in the sink.
John strode through the kitchen and on out to the barn. There were six cows to be milked and the great cans of milk to be taken to the station for the morning train.
Jennie put coffee and bacon on the stove, and then, catching up a pail from the porch, went after John. A golden red disk broke the misty blue of the morning above the cow pasture. A sweet, fragrant breath blew from the orchard. But Jennie neither saw nor felt the beauty about her.
She glanced at the sun and thought, It's going to be a hot day. She glanced at the orchard, and her brows knit. There it hung. All that fruit. Bushels of it going to waste. Maybe she could get time that day to make some more apple butter. But the tomatoes wouldn't wait. She must pick them and get them to town today, or that would be a dead loss. After all her work, well, it would only be in a piece with everything else if it did happen so. She and John had bad luck, and they might as well make up their minds to it.
She finished her part of the milking and hurried back again to the overcooked bacon and strong coffee. The children were down, clamorous, dirty, always underfoot. Jim, the eldest, was in his first term of school. She glanced at his spotted waist. He should have a clean one. But she couldn't help it. She couldn't get the washing done last week, and when she was to get a day for it this week she didn't know, with all the picking and the trips to town to make!
Breakfast was hurried and unpalatable, a sort of grudging concession to the demands of the body. Then John left in the milk wagon for the station, and Jennie packed little Jim's lunch basket with bread and apple butter and pie, left the two little children to their own devices in the backyard, and started toward the barn. There was no time to do anything in the house. The chickens and turkeys had to be attended to, and then she must get to the tomato patch before the sun got too hot. Behind her was the orchard with its rows and rows of laden apple tree. Maybe this afternoon—maybe tomorrow morning. There were the potatoes, too, to be lifted. Too hard work for a woman. But what were you going to do? Starve? John worked till dark in the fields.
She pushed her hair back with a quick, boyish sweep of her arm and went on scattering the grain to the fowls. She remembered their eager plans when they were married, when they took over the old farm—laden with its heavy mortgage—that had been John's father's. John had been so straight of back then and so jolly. Only seven years, yet now he was stooped a little, and his brows were always drawn, as though to hide a look of ashamed failure. They had planned to have a model farm someday: blooded stock, a tractor, a new barn. And then such a home they were to make of the old stone house! Jennie's hopes had flared higher even than John's. A rug for the parlor, an overstuffed set like the one in the mail—order catalogue, linoleum for the kitchen, electric lights!
They were young and, oh, so strong! There was nothing they could not do if they only worked hard enough.
But that great faith had dwindled as the first year passed. John worked later and later in the evenings. Jennie took more and more of the heavy tasks upon her own shoulders. She often thought with some pride that no woman in the countryside ever helped her husband as she did. Even with the haying and riding the reaper. Hard, coarsening work, but she was glad to do it for John's sake.
The sad riddle of it all was that at the end of each year they were no further on. The only difference from the year before was another window shutter hanging from one hinge and another crippled wagon in the barnyard which John never had time to mend. They puzzled over it in a vague distress. And meanwhile life degenerated into a straining, hopeless struggle. Sometimes lately John had seemed a little listless, as though nothing mattered. A little bitter when he spoke of Henry Davis.
Henry held the mortgage and had expected a payment on the principle this year. He had come once and looked about with something very like a sneer on his face. If he should decide someday to foreclose—that would be the final blow. They never would get up after that. If John couldn't hold the old farm, he could never try to buy a new one. It would mean being renters all their lives. Poor renters at that!
She went to the tomato field. It had been her own idea to do some tracking along with the regular farm crops. But, like everything else, it had failed of her expectations. As she put the scarlet tomatoes, just a little overripe, into the basket, she glanced with a hard tightening of her lips toward a break in the trees a half mile away where a dark, listening bit of road caught the sun. Across its polished surface twinkled an endless procession of shining, swift—moving objects. The State Highway.
Jennie hated it. In the first place, it was so tauntingly near and yet so hopelessly far from them. If it only ran by their door, as it did past henry Davis's for instance, it would solve the whole problem of marketing the fruits and vegetables. Then they could set the baskets on the lawn, and people could stop for them. But as it was, nobody all summer long had paid the least attention to the sign John had put up at the end of the lane. And no wonder. Why should travelers drive their cars over the stony country byway, when a little farther along they would find the same fruit spread temptingly for them at the very roadside?
But there was another reason she hated that bit of sleek road showing between the trees. She hated it because it hurt her with its suggestions of all that passed her by in that endless procession twinkling in the sunshine. There they kept going, day after day, those happy, carefree women, riding in handsome limousines or in gay little roadsters. Some in plainer cars, too, but even those were, like the others, women who could have rest, pleasure, comfort for the asking. They were whirled along hour by hour to new pleasures, while she was weighted to the drudgery of the farm like one of the great rocks in the pasture field.
And—most bitter thought of all—they had pretty homes to go back to when the happy journey was over. That seemed to be the strange and cruel law about homes. The finer they were, the easier it was to leave them. Now with her—if she had the rug for the parlor and the stuffed furniture and linoleum for the kitchen, she shouldn't mind anything so much then; she had nothing, nothing but hard slaving and bad luck. And the highway taunted her with it. Flung its impossible pleasures mockingly in her face as she bent over the vines or dragged the heavy baskets along the rows.
The sun grew hotter. Jennie put more strength into her task. She knew, at last, by the scorching heat overhead that is was nearing noon. She must have a bit of lunch ready for John when he came in. There wasn't time to prepare much. Just reheat the coffee and set down some bread and pie.
She started towards the house, giving a long yodeling call for the children as she went. They appeared from the orchard, tumbled and torn from experiments with the wire fence. Her heart smothered her at the sight of them. Among the other dreams that the years had crushed out were those of little rosy boys and girls in clean suits and fresh ruffled dresses. As it was, the children had just grown like farm weeds.
This was the part of all the drudgery that hurt most. That she had not time to care for her children, sew for them, teach them things that other children knew. Sometimes it seemed as if she had no real love for them at all. She was too terribly tired as a rule to have any feeling. The only times she used energy to talk to them was when she had to reprove them for some dangerous misdeed. That was all wrong. It seemed wicked; but how could she help it? With the work draining the very life out of her, strong as she was.
John came in heavily, and they ate in silence except for the children's chatter. John hardly looked up form his plate. He gulped down great drafts of the warmed-over coffee and then pushed his chair back hurriedly.
"I'm goin' to try to finish the harrowin' in the south field," he said.
"I'm at the tomatoes," Jennie answered. "I've got them' most all picked and ready for takin'."
That was all. Work was again upon them.
It was two o'clock by the sun, and Jennie had loaded the last heavy basket of tomatoes on the milk wagon in which she must drive to town, when she heard shrill voices sounding along the path. The children were flying in excitement toward her.
"Mum! Mum! Mum!" they called as they came panting up to her with big, surprised eyes.
"Mum, there's a lady up there. At the kitchen door. All dressed up. A pretty lady. She wants to see you."
Jennie gazed down at them disbelievingly. A lady, a pretty lady at her kitchen door? All dressed up! What that could mean! Was it possible someone had at last braved the stony lane to buy fruit? Maybe bushels of it!
"Did she come in a car?" Jennie asked quickly.
"No, she just walked in. She's awful pretty. She smiled at us."
Jennie's hopes dropped. Of course. She might have known. Some agent likely, selling books. She followed the children wearily back along the path and in at the rear door of the kitchen. Across from it another door opened into the side yard. Here stood the stranger.
The two women looked at each other across the kitchen, across the table with the remains of two meals upon it, the strewn chairs, the littered stove—across the whole scene of unlovely disorder. They looked at each other in startled surprise, as inhabitants of Earth and Mars might look if they were suddenly brought face-to-face.
Jennie saw a woman in a gray tweed coat that seemed to be part of her straight, slim body. A small gray hat with a rose quill was drawn low over the brownish hair. Her blue eyes were clear and smiling. She was beautiful! And yet she was not young. She was in her forties, surely. But an aura of eager youth clung to her, a clean and exquisite freshness.
The stranger in her turn looked across at a young woman, haggard and weary. Her yellowish hair hung in straggling wisps. Her eyes looked hard and hunted. Her cheeks were thin and sallow. Her calico dress was shapeless and begrimed from her work.
So they looked at each other for one long, appraising second. Then the woman in gray smiled.
"How do you do? " she began. "We ran our car into the shade of your lane to have our lunch and rest for a while. And I walked on up to buy a few apples, if you have them."
Jennie stood staring at the stranger. There was an unconscious hostility in her eyes. This was one of the women from the highway. One of those envied ones who passed twinkling through the summer sunshine from pleasure to pleasure while Jennie slaved on.
But the pretty lady's smile was disarming. Jennie started toward a chair and pulled off the old coat and apron that lay on it.
"Won't you sit down?" she said politely. "I'll go and get the apples. I'll have to pick them off the tree. Would you prefer rambos?"
"I don't know what they are, but they sound delicious. You must choose them for me. But mayn't I come with you? I should love to help pick them."
Jennie considered. She felt baffled by the friendliness of the other woman's face and utterly unable to meet it. But she did not know how to refuse.
"Why I s'pose so. If you can get through the dirt."
She led the way over the back porch with its crowded baskets and pails and coal buckets, along the unkept path toward the orchard. She had never been so acutely conscious of the disorder about her. Now a hot shame brought a lump to her throat. In her preoccupied haste before, she had actually not noticed that tub of overturned milk cans and rubbish heap! She saw it all now swiftly through the other woman's eyes. And then that new perspective was checked by a bitter defiance. Why should she care how things looked to this woman? She would be gone, speeding down the highway in a few minutes as though she had never been there.
She reached the orchard and began to drag a long ladder from the fence to the rambo tree.
The other woman cried out in distress. "Oh, but you can't do that! You mustn't. It's too heavy for you, or even for both of us. Please just let me pick a few from the ground."
Jennie looked in amazement at the stranger's concern. It was so long since she had seen anything like it.
"Heavy?" she repeated. "This ladder? I wish I didn't ever lift anything heavier than this. After hoistin' bushel baskets of tomatoes onto a wagon, this feels light to me."
The stranger caught her arm. "But—but do you think it's right? Why, that's a man's work."
Jennie's eyes blazed. Something furious and long-pent broke out from within her. "Right! Who are you to be askin' me whether I'm right or not?" What would have become of us if I didn't do a man's work? It takes us both, slaving away, an' then we get nowhere. A person like you don't know what work is! You don't know—"
Jennie's voice was the high shrill of hysteria; but the stranger's low tones somehow broke through. "Listen," she said soothingly. "Please listen to me. I'm sorry I annoyed you by saying that, but now, since we are talking, why can't we sit down here and rest a minute? It's so cool and lovely here under the trees, and if you were to tell me all about it—because I'm only a stranger—perhaps it would help. It does sometimes, you know. A little rest would—"
"Rest! Me sit down to rest, an' the wagon loaded to go to town? It'll hurry me now to get back before dark."
And then something strange happened. The other women put her cool, soft hand on Jennie's grimy arm. There was a compelling tenderness in her eyes. "Just take the time you would have spent picking apples. I would so much rather. And perhaps somehow I could help you. I wish I could. Won't you tell me why you have to work so hard?"
Jennie sank down on the smooth green grass. Her hunted, unwilling eyes had yielded to some power in the clear, serene eyes of the stranger. A sort of exhaustion came over her. A trembling reaction from the straining effort of weeks.
"There ain't much to tell," she said half sullenly, "only that we ain't gettin' ahead. We're clean discouraged, both off us. Henry Davis is talking about foreclosin' on us if we don't pay some principle. The time of the mortgage is out this year, an' mebbe he won't renew it. He's got plenty himself, but them's the hardest kind." She paused; then her eyes flared. "An' it ain't that I haven't done my part. Look at me. I'm barely thirty, an' I might be fifty. I'm so weather-beaten. That's the way I've worked!"
"And you think that has helped your husband?"
"Helped him?" Jennie's voice was sharp. "Why shouldn't it help him?"
The stranger was looking away through the green stretches of orchard. She laced her slim hands together about her knees. She spoke slowly. "Men are such queer things, husbands especially. Sometimes we blunder when we are trying hardest to serve them. For instance, they want us to be economical, and yet they want us in pretty clothes. They need our work, and yet they want us to keep our youth and our beauty. And sometimes they don't know themselves which they really want most. So we have to choose. That's what makes it so hard".
She paused. Jennie was watching her with dull curiosity as though she were speaking a foreign tongue. Then the stranger went on:
I had to choose once, long ago; just after we were married, my husband decided to have his own business, so he started a very tiny one. He couldn't afford a helper, and he wanted me to stay in the office while he did the outside selling. And I refused, even though it hurt him. Oh, it was hard! But I knew how it would be if I did as he wished. We would both have come back each night. Tired out, to a dark, cheerless house and a picked-up dinner. And a year if that might have taken something away from us—something precious. I couldn't risk it, so I refused and stuck to it.
"And then how I worked in my house—a flat it was then. I had so little outside of our wedding gifts; but at least I could make it a clean, shining, happy place. I tried to give our little dinners the grace of a feast. And as the months went on, I knew I had done right. My husband would come home dead-tired and discouraged, ready to give up the whole thing. But after he had eaten and sat down in our bright little living room, and I had read to him or told him all the funny things I could invent about my day, I could see him change. By bedtime he had his courage back, and by morning he was at last ready to go out and fight again. And at last he won, and he won his success alone, as a man loves to do.
Still Jennie did not speak. She only regarded her guest with a half-resentful understanding.
The woman in gray looked off again between the trees. Her voice was very sweet. A humorous little smile played about her lips.
"There was a queen once," she went on, "who reigned in troublous days. And every time the country was on the brink of war and the people ready to fly into a panic, she would put on her showiest dress and take her court with her and go hunting. And when the people would see her riding by, apparently so gay and happy, they were sure all was well with the Government. So she tided over many a danger. And I've tried to be like her.
"Whenever a big crisis comes in my husband's business—and we've had several—or when he's discouraged, I put on my prettiest dress and get the best dinner I know how or give a party! And somehow it seems to work. That's the woman's part, you know. To play the queen—"
A faint honk-honk came from the lane. The stranger started to her feet. "That's my husband. I must go. Please don't bother about the apples. I'll just take these from under the tree. We only wanted two or three, really. And give these to the children." She slipped two coins into Jennie's hand.
Jennie had risen, too, and was trying from a confusion of startled thoughts to select one for speech. Instead she only answered the other woman's bright good-bye with a stammering repetition and a broken apology about the apples.
She watched the stranger's erect, lithe figure hurrying away across the path that led directly to the lane. Then she turned her back to the house, wondering dazedly if she had only dreamed that the other woman had been there. But no, there were emotions rising hotly within her that were new. They had had no place an hour before. They had risen at the words of the stranger and at the sight of her smooth, soft hair, the fresh color in her cheeks, the happy shine of her eyes.
A great wave of longing swept over Jennie, a desire that was lost in choking despair. It was as thought she had heard a strain of music for which she had waited all her life and then felt it swept away into silence before she had grasped its beauty. For a few brief minutes she, Jennie Musgrave, had sat beside one of the women of the highway and caught a breath of her life—that life which forever twinkled in the past in bright procession, like the happenings of a fairy tale. Then she was gone, and Jennie was left as she had been, bound to the soil like one of the rocks of the field.
The bitterness that stormed her heart now was different from the old dull disheartenment. For it was coupled with new knowledge. The words of the stranger seemed more vivid to her than when she had sat listening in the orchard. But they came back to her with the pain of agony.
"All very well for her to talk so smooth to me about man's work and woman's work! An' what she did for her husband's big success. Easy enough for her to sit talking about queens! What would she do if she was here on this farm like me? What would a woman like her do?"
Jennie had reached the kitchen door and stood there looking at the hopeless melee about her. Her words sounded strange and hollow in the silence of the house. "Easy for her!" she burst out. She never had the work pilin' up over her like I have. She never felt it at her throat like a wolf, the same as John an' me does. Talk about choosin'! I haven't got no choice. I just got to keep goin'—just keep goin', like I always have—"
She stopped suddenly. There in the middle of the kitchen floor, where the other woman had passed over, lay a tiny square of white. Jennie crossed to it quickly and picked it up. A faint delicious fragrance like the dream of a flower came from it. Jennie inhaled it eagerly. It was not like any odor she had ever known. It made her think of sweet, strange things. Things she had never thought about before. Of gardens in the early summer dusk, of wide fair rooms with the moonlight shining in them. It made her somehow think with vague wistfulness of all that.
She looked carefully at the tiny square. The handkerchief was of fine, fairylike smoothness. In the corner a dainty blue butterfly spread his wings. Jennie drew in another long breath. The fragrance filled her senses again. Her first greedy draft had not exhausted it. It would stay for a while, at least.
She laid the bit of white down cautiously on the edge of the table and went to the sink, where she washed her hands carefully. The she returned and picked up the handkerchief again with something like reverence. She sat down, still holding it, staring at it. This bit of linen was to her an articulated voice. She understood its language. It spoke to her of white, freshly washed clothes blowing in the sunshine, of an iron moving smoothly, leisurely, to the accompaniment of a song over snowy folds; it spoke to her of quiet, orderly rooms and ticking clocks and a mending basket under the evening lamp; it spoke to her of all the peaceful routine of a well managed household, the kind she had once dreamed of having.
But more than this, the exquisite daintiness of it, the sweet, alluring perfume spoke to her of something else which her heart understood, even though her speech could have found no words for it. She could feel gropingly the delicacy, the grace, the beauty that made up the other woman's life in all its relations.
She, Jennie, had none of that. Everything about their lives, hers and John's, was coarsened, soiled somehow by the dragging, endless labor or the days.
Jennie leaned forward, her arms stretched tautly before her upon her knees, her hands clasped tightly over the fragrant bit of white. Suppose she were to try doing as the stranger had said. Suppose that she spent her time on the house and let the outside work go. What then? What would John say? Would they be much farther behind than they were now? Could they be? And suppose, by some strange chance, the other woman had been right! That a man could be helped more by doing of these other things she had neglected?
She sat very still, distressed, uncertain. Out in the barnyard waited the wagon of tomatoes, overripe now for market. No, she could do nothing today, at least, but go on as usual.
Then her hands opened a little; the perfume within them came up to her, bringing again that thrill of sweet, indescribable things.
She started up, half-terrified at her own resolve. "I'm goin' to try it now. Mebbe I'm crazy, but I'm goin' to do it anyhow!"
It was a long time since Jennie had performed such a meticulous toilet. It was years since she had brushed her hair. A hasty combing had been its best treatment. She put on her one clean dress, the dark voile reserved for trips to town. She even changed from her shapeless, heavy shoes to her best ones. Then, as she looked at herself in the dusty mirror, she saw that she was changed. Something, at least, of the hard haggardness was gone from her face, and her hair framed it with smooth softness. Tomorrow she would wash it. It used to be almost yellow.
She went to the kitchen. With something of the burning zeal of a fanatic, she attacked the confusion before her. By half past four the room was clean: the floor swept, the stove shining, dishes and pans washed and put in their places. From the tumbled depths of a drawer Jennie had extracted a white tablecloth that had been bought in the early days, for company only. With a spirit of daring recklessness she spread it on the table. She polished the chimney of the big oil lamp and then set the fixture, clean and shining, in the center of the white cloth.
Now the supper! And she must hurry. She planned to have it at six o' clock and ring the big bell for John fifteen minutes before, as she used to just after they were married.
She decided upon fried ham and browned potatoes and applesauce with hot biscuits. She hadn't made them for so long, but her fingers fell into their old deftness. Why, cooking was just play if you had time to do it right! Then she thought of the tomatoes and gave a little shudder. She thought of the long hours of backbreaking work she had put into them and called herself a little fool to have been swayed by the words of a strange and the scent of a handkerchief, to neglect her rightful work and bring more loss upon John and herself. But she went on, making the biscuits, turning the ham, setting the table.
It was half past five; the first pan of flaky brown mounds had been withdrawn from the oven, the children's faces and hands had been washed and their excited questions satisfied, when the sound of a car came from the bend. Jennie knew that car. It belonged to Henry Davis. He could be coming for only one thing.
The blow they had dreaded, fending off by blind disbelief in the ultimate disaster, was about to fall. Henry was coming to tell them he was going to foreclose. It would almost kill John. This was his father's old farm. John had taken it over, mortgage and all, so hopefully, so sure he could succeed where his father had failed. If he had to leave now there would be a double disgrace to bear. And where could they go? Farms weren't so plentiful.
Henry had driven up to the side gate. He fumbled with some papers in his inner pocket as he started up the walk. A wild terror filled Jennie's heart. She wanted desperately to avoid meeting Henry Davis's keen, hard face, to flee somewhere, anywhere before she heard the words hat doomed them.
Then as she stood shaken, wondering how she could live through what the next hours would bring, she saw in a flash the beautiful stranger as she had sat in the orchard, looking off between the trees and smiling to herself. "There was once a queen."
Jennie heard the words again distinctly just as Henry Davis's steps sounded sharply nearer on the walk outside. There was only a confused picture of a queen wearing the stranger's lovely, highbred face, riding gaily to the hunt through forests and towns while her kingdom was tottering. Riding gallantly on, in spite of her fears.
Jennie's heart was pounding and her hands were suddenly cold. But something unreal and yet irresistible was sweeping her with it. "There was once a queen."
She opened the screen door before Henry Davis had time to knock. She extended her hand cordially. She was smiling. "Well, how d' you do, Mr. Davis. Come right in. I'm real glad to see you. Been quite a while since you was over."
Henry looked surprised and very much embarrassed. "Why, no, now, I won't go in. I just stopped to see John on a little matter of business. I'll just—"
"You'll just come right in. John will be in from milkin' in a few minutes an' you can talk while you eat, both of you. I've supper just ready. Now step right in, Mr. Davis!"
As Jennie moved aside, a warm, fragrant breath of fried ham and biscuits seemed to waft itself to Henry Davis's nostrils. There was a visible softening of his features. "Why, no, I didn't reckon on anything like this. I 'lowed I'd just speak to John and then be gettin' on."
"They'll see you at home when you get there," Jennie put in quickly. "You never tasted my hot biscuits with butter an' quince honey, or you wouldn't take so much coachin'!"
Henry Davis came in and sat in the big, clean, warm kitchen. His eyes took in every detail of the orderly room: the clean cloth, the shining lamp, the neat sink, the glowing stove. Jennie saw him relax comfortably in his chair. Then above the aromas of the food about her, she detected the strange sweetness of the bit of white linen she had tucked away in the bosom of her dress. It rose to her as a haunting sense of her power as a woman.
She smiled at Henry Davis. Smiled as she would never have thought of doing a day ago. Then she would have spoken to him with a drawn face full of subservient fear. Now, though the fear clutched her heart, her lips smiled sweetly, moved by that unreality that seemed to possess her. "There was once a queen."
"An' how are things goin' with you, Mr. Davis?" she asked with a blithe upward reflection.
Henry Davis was very human. He had never noticed before that Jennie's hair was so thick and pretty and that she had such pleasant ways. Neither had he dreamed that she was such a good cook as the sight and smell of the supper things would indicate. He was very comfortable there in the big sweet-smelling kitchen.
He smiled back. It was an interesting experiment on Henry's part, for his smiles were rare. "Oh, so-so. How are they with you?"
Jennie had been taught to speak the truth; but at this moment there dawned in her mind a vague understanding that the high loyalties of life are, after all, relative and not absolute.
She smiled again as she skillfully flipped a great slice of golden brown ham over in the frying pan. "Why, just fine, Mr. Davis. We're gettin' on just fine, John an' me. It's been hard sleddin' but I sort of think the worst is over. I think we're goin' to come out way ahead now. We'll just be proud to pay off that mortgage so fast, come another year, that you'll be surprised!"
It was said. Jennie marveled that the words had not choked her, had not somehow smitten her dead as she spoke them. But their effect on Henry Davis was amazingly good.
"That so?" he asked in surprise. "Well now, that's fine. I always wanted to see John make a success of the old place, but somehow—well, you know it didn't look as if—that is, there's been some talk around that maybe John wasn't just gettin' along any too—you know. A man has to sort of watch his investments. Well, now, I'm glad things are pickin' up a little."
Jennie felt as though a tight hand at her throat had relaxed. She spoke brightly of the fall weather and the crops as she finished setting the dishes on the table and rang the big bell for John. There was delicate work yet to be done when he came in.
Little Jim had to be sent to hasten him before he finally appeared. He was a big man, John Musgrave, big and slow moving and serious. He had known nothing all his life but hard physical toil. Hedaviess had pitted his great body against all the adverse forces of nature. There was a time when he had felt that strength such as his was all any man needed to bring him fortune. Now he was not so sure. The brightness of that faith was dimmed by experience.
John came to the kitchen door with his eyebrows drawn. Little Jim had told Jim that Henry Davis was there. He came into the room as an accused man faces the jury of his peers, faces the men who, though the same flesh and blood as he, are yet somehow curiously in a position to save or to destroy him.
John came in, and then he stopped, staring blankly at the scene before him. At Jennie moving about the bright table, chatting happily with Henry Davis! At Henry himself, his sharp features softened by an air of great satisfaction. At the sixth plate on the white cloth. Henry staying for supper!
But the silent deeps of John's nature served him well. He made no comment. Merely shook hands with Henry Davis and then washed his face at the sink.
Jennie arranged the savory dishes, and they sat down to supper. It was an entirely new experience to John to sit at the head of his own table and serve a generously heaped plate to Henry Davis. It sent through him a sharp thrill of sufficiency, of equality. He realized that before he had been cringing in his soul at the very sight of this man.
Henry consumed eight biscuits richly covered with quince honey, along with the heavier part of his dinner. Jennie counted them. She recalled hearing that the Davises did not set a very bountiful table; it was common talk that Mrs. Davis was even more "miserly" than her husband. But, however that was, Henry now seemed to grow more and more genial and expansive as he ate. So did John. By the time the pie was set before them, they were laughing over a joke Henry had heard at Grange meeting.
Jennie was bright, watchful, careful. If the talk lagged, she made a quick remark. She moved softly between table and stove, refilling the dishes. She saw to it that a hot biscuit was at Henry Davis's elbow just when he was ready for it. All the while there was rising within her a strong zest for life that she would have deemed impossible only that morning. This meal, at least, was a perfect success, and achievements of any sort whatever had been few.
Henry Davis left soon after supper. He brought the conversation around awkwardly to his errand as they rose from the table. Jennie was ready.
"I told him, John, that the worst was over now, an' we're getting' on fine!" She laughed." I told him we'd be swampin' him pretty soon with our payments. Ain't that right John?"
John's mind was not analytical. At that moment he was comfortable. He has been host at a delicious supper with his ancient adversary, whose sharp face marvelously softened. Jennie's eyes were shining with a new and amazing confidence. It was a natural moment for unreasoning optimism.
"Why that's right, Mr. Davis. I believe we can start clearin' this off now pretty soon. If you could just see your way clear to renew the note mebbe. . . ."
It was done. The papers were back in Davis's pocket. They had bid him a cordial good-bye from the door.
"Next time you come, I will have biscuits for you Mr. Davis." Jennie had called daringly after him.
"Now you don't forget that Mrs. Musgrave! They certainly ain't hard to eat."
He was gone. Jennie cleared the table and set the shining lamp in the center of the oilcloth covering. She began to wash the dishes. John was fumbling through the papers on a hanging shelf. He finally sat down with and old tablet and pencil. He spoke meditatively. "I believe I'll do a little figurin' since I've got time tonight. It just struck me that mebbe if I used my head a little more I'd get on faster."
"Well now, you might," said Jennie. It would not be John's way to comment just yet on their sudden deliverance. She polished two big Rambo apples and placed them on a saucer beside him.
He looked pleased. "Now that's what I like." He grinned. Then making a clumsy clutch at her arm, he added, "Say, you look sort of pretty tonight."
Jennie made a brisk coquettish business of freeing herself. "Go along with you!" she returned, smiling and started in again upon the dishes. But a hot wave of color had swept up in her shallow cheeks.
John had looked more grateful over her setting those two apples beside him now, than he had the day last fall when she lifted all the potatoes herself! Men were strange, as the woman in gray had said. Maybe even John had been needing something else more than he needed the hard, backbreaking work she had been doing.
She tidied up the kitchen and put the children to bed. It seemed strange to be through now, ready to sit down. All summer they had worked outdoors till bedtime. Last night she had been slaving over apple butter until she stopped, exhausted, and John had been working in the barn with the lantern. Tonight seemed so peaceful, so quiet. John still sat at the table, figuring while he munched his apples. His brows were not drawn now. There was a new, purposeful light upon his face.
Jennie walked to the doorway and stood looking off through the darkness and through the break in the trees at the end of the lane. Bright and golden lights kept glittering across it, breaking dimly through the woods, flashing out strongly for a moment, then disappearing behind the hill. Those were the lights of the happy cars that never stopped in their swift search for far and magic places. Those were the lights of the highway which she had hated. But she did not hate it now. For today it had come to her at last and left with her some of its mysterious pleasure.
Jennie wished, as she stood there, that she could somehow tell the beautiful stranger in the gray coat that her words had been true, that she, Jennie, insofar as she was able, was to be like her and fulfill her woman's part.
For while she was not figuring as John was doing, yet her mind had been planning, sketching in details, strengthening itself against the chains of old habits, resolving on new ones; seeing with sudden clearness where they had been blundered, where they had made mistakes that farsighted, orderly management could have avoided. But how could John have sat down to figure in comfort before, in the kind of kitchen she had been keeping?
Jennie bit her lip. Even if some of the tomatoes spoiled, if all of them spoiled, there would be a snowy washing on her line tomorrow; there would be ironing the next day in her clean kitchen. She could sing as she worked. She used to when she was a girl. Even if the apples rotted on the trees, there were certain things she knew now that she must do, regardless of what John might say. It would pay better in the end, for she had read the real needs of his soul from his eyes that evening. Yes, wives had to choose for their husbands sometimes.
A thin haunting breath of sweetness rose from the bosom of her dress where the scrap of white linen lay. Jennie smiled into the dark. And tomorrow she would take time to wash her hair. It used to be yellow—and she wished she could see the stranger once more, just long enough to tell her she understood.
As matter of fact, at that very moment, many miles along the sleek highway, a woman in a gray coat, with a soft gray hat and a rose quill, leaned suddenly close to her husband as he shot the high-powered car through the night. Suddenly he glanced down at her and slackened the speed.
"Tired?" he asked. "You haven't spoken for miles. Shall we stop at this next town?"
The woman shook her head. "I'm all right, and I love to drive at night. It's only—you know—that poor woman at the farm. I can't get over her wretched face and house and everything. It—it was hopeless!"
The man smiled down at her tenderly. "Well, I'm sorry, too, if it was all as bad as your description; but you mustn't worry. Good gracious, darling, you're not weeping over it, I hope!""No, truly, just a few little tears. I know it's silly, but I did so want to help her, and I know now that what I said must have sounded perfectly insane. She wouldn't know what I was talking about. She just looked up with that blank, tired face. And it all seemed so impossible. No, I'm not going to cry. Of course I'm not—but—lend me your handkerchief, will you dear? I've lost mine somehow!"