“Doan be skeered.  They ain’ nuffin’ to be skeered of ’bout Marse Wes.  Eve’ything all right ef you got patience, an’ ef you got sense, an’ ef you got haht enough.  Sperrit an’ sense go far, but the haht gwine carry you froo.  Now I said my say”—­her tone mellowed into unctuous kindness—­“what you want, Missy?  Som’n Aun’ Dolcey c’n fotch you?  Temme what it is, f’r I got to be up an’ erbout my wuk.  I got er weddin’ cake to mek yit this ebenin’.  Yes, ma’am—­I gwi’ mek you weddin’ cake fill de bigges’ pan in de kitchen.”

She helped Annie rummage in her trunk and get out the sweater she had come in for, and it was not until the girl was running back to the barns that she realized Aunt Dolcey had not answered her question.  But the old woman’s words had steadied her, reassured her.

And Wes received her gayly.  His repairs were done, his team in harness, ready to start.

“It’s a shame,” he said.  “We ought to go off down to town and play round and have a big time, but I’m so behind with my disking, Annie, honey.  You see I had to stay over a day in Baltimore.  Fact.  Important business.”  He winked at her jocosely.  “So I’ve got to work rest of the day.  That’s what comes of marrying a farmer.  Farm work don’t even wait on a bride, not even the prettiest bride in the world.”

He stooped to kiss her, and she held tight to his arm.

“I don’t mind.  You go on about your business and I’ll get all unpacked and settled.  But don’t be late to supper—­Aunt Dolcey’s making us a wedding cake.”

She watched him as he drove down the lane and turned into the field and steadied the first straining rush of his team.  Again she felt her abandonment, her utter forlornity, her distance from everything she had known and been accustomed to.  But once more she proved herself an adventurer and a philosopher.

Shrugging her shoulders, she turned back to the house.

“It may be a funny way to get married; but everything’s all right until it stops being all right, and—­and I like it here.”

* * * * *

She had been married a week now, and the week had been the fairest of fair weather, indoors as well as out.  Now she sat at the clumsy old secretary desk to write a letter to Miss Tolman.

...  For all you said, and hought I was crazy, I am just as happy as I can be.  Wes is kind and full of fun, and he works very hard.  This farm is a pretty place, and the house is ten times as big as your shop.  I am learning to cook and churn butter, and Aunt Dolcey, the old coloured woman, teaches me and doesn’t laugh when I am dumb.  She says, and Wes does, too, that I am a born farmer’s wife, and I think maybe I am, for I like it in the country more than I ever thought I’d like any place, and I don’t get a bit lonely.  You ought to see our wheat—­it’s like green satin, only prettier.