Joralemon was a prairie town of the size of Gopher Prairie.

Their motor was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early hour.  They went down by freight-train, after the weighty and conversational business of leaving Hugh with Aunt Bessie.  Carol was exultant over this irregular jaunting.  It was the first unusual thing, except the glance of Bresnahan, that had happened since the weaning of Hugh.  They rode in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car jerked along at the end of the train.  It was a roving shanty, the cabin of a land schooner, with black oilcloth seats along the side, and for desk, a pine board to be let down on hinges.  Kennicott played seven-up with the conductor and two brakemen.  Carol liked the blue silk kerchiefs about the brakemen’s throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of friendly independence.  Since there were no sweating passengers crammed in beside her, she reveled in the train’s slowness.  She was part of these lakes and tawny wheat-fields.  She liked the smell of hot earth and clean grease; and the leisurely chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug of the trucks was a song of contentment in the sun.

She pretended that she was going to the Rockies.  When they reached Joralemon she was radiant with holiday-making.

Her eagerness began to lessen the moment they stopped at a red frame station exactly like the one they had just left at Gopher Prairie, and Kennicott yawned, “Right on time.  Just in time for dinner at the Calibrees’.  I ’phoned the doctor from G. P. that we’d be here.  ’We’ll catch the freight that gets in before twelve,’ I told him.  He said he’d meet us at the depot and take us right up to the house for dinner.  Calibree is a good man, and you’ll find his wife is a mighty brainy little woman, bright as a dollar.  By golly, there he is.”

Dr. Calibree was a squat, clean-shaven, conscientious-looking man of forty.  He was curiously like his own brown-painted motor car, with eye-glasses for windshield.  “Want you to meet my wife, doctor—­Carrie, make you ’quainted with Dr. Calibree,” said Kennicott.  Calibree bowed quietly and shook her hand, but before he had finished shaking it he was concentrating upon Kennicott with, “Nice to see you, doctor.  Say, don’t let me forget to ask you about what you did in that exopthalmic goiter case—­that Bohemian woman at Wahkeenyan.”

The two men, on the front seat of the car, chanted goiters and ignored her.  She did not know it.  She was trying to feed her illusion of adventure by staring at unfamiliar houses . . . drab cottages, artificial stone bungalows, square painty stolidities with immaculate clapboards and broad screened porches and tidy grass-plots.