Now the train was passing the elevator, the grim storage-tanks for oil, a creamery, a lumber-yard, a stock-yard muddy and trampled and stinking.  Now they were stopping at a squat red frame station, the platform crowded with unshaven farmers and with loafers—­unadventurous people with dead eyes.  She was here.  She could not go on.  It was the end—­the end of the world.  She sat with closed eyes, longing to push past Kennicott, hide somewhere in the train, flee on toward the Pacific.

Something large arose in her soul and commanded, “Stop it!  Stop being a whining baby!” She stood up quickly; she said, “Isn’t it wonderful to be here at last!”

He trusted her so.  She would make herself like the place.  And she was going to do tremendous things——­

She followed Kennicott and the bobbing ends of the two bags which he carried.  They were held back by the slow line of disembarking passengers.  She reminded herself that she was actually at the dramatic moment of the bride’s home-coming.  She ought to feel exalted.  She felt nothing at all except irritation at their slow progress toward the door.

Kennicott stooped to peer through the windows.  He shyly exulted: 

“Look!  Look!  There’s a bunch come down to welcome us!  Sam Clark and the missus and Dave Dyer and Jack Elder, and, yes sir, Harry Haydock and Juanita, and a whole crowd!  I guess they see us now.  Yuh, yuh sure, they see us!  See ’em waving!”

She obediently bent her head to look out at them.  She had hold of herself.  She was ready to love them.  But she was embarrassed by the heartiness of the cheering group.  From the vestibule she waved to them, but she clung a second to the sleeve of the brakeman who helped her down before she had the courage to dive into the cataract of hand-shaking people, people whom she could not tell apart.  She had the impression that all the men had coarse voices, large damp hands, tooth-brush mustaches, bald spots, and Masonic watch-charms.

She knew that they were welcoming her.  Their hands, their smiles, their shouts, their affectionate eyes overcame her.  She stammered, “Thank you, oh, thank you!”

One of the men was clamoring at Kennicott, “I brought my machine down to take you home, doc.”

“Fine business, Sam!” cried Kennicott; and, to Carol, “Let’s jump in.  That big Paige over there.  Some boat, too, believe me!  Sam can show speed to any of these Marmons from Minneapolis!”

Only when she was in the motor car did she distinguish the three people who were to accompany them.  The owner, now at the wheel, was the essence of decent self-satisfaction; a baldish, largish, level-eyed man, rugged of neck but sleek and round of face—­face like the back of a spoon bowl.  He was chuckling at her, “Have you got us all straight yet?”

“Course she has!  Trust Carrie to get things straight and get ’em darn quick!  I bet she could tell you every date in history!” boasted her husband.