A Daughter of the Land

"Of course, Mother," said Adam.

He called her attention to the road.

"Look at those tracks," he said. "Was she sick? She might have

been drunk, from them."

"No," said Kate, "she wasn't sick. She WAS drunk, drunken with

joy. She had a picture of the most beautiful little baby girl.

They were to start to Chicago after her to-night. I suspect she

was driving with the picture in one hand. Oh, my God, have

mercy!"

They had come to deep grooves in loose gravel, then the cut in the

embankment, then they could see the wrecked car standing on the

engine and lying against a big tree, near the water, while two men

and a woman were carrying a limp form across the meadow toward the

house. As their car stopped, Kate kissed the baby mechanically,

handed her to Adam, and ran into the house where she dragged a

couch to the middle of the first room she entered, found a pillow,

and brought a bucket of water and a towel from the kitchen. They

carried Nancy Ellen in and laid her down. Kate began unfastening

clothing and trying to get the broken body in shape for the doctor

to work upon; but she spread the towel over what had been a face

of unusual beauty. Robert came in a few minutes, then all of them

worked under his directions until he suddenly sank to the floor,

burying his face in Nancy Ellen's breast; then they knew. Kate

gathered her sister's feet in her arms and hid her face beside

them. The neighbours silently began taking away things that had

been used, while Mrs. Howe chose her whitest sheet, and laid it on

a chair near Robert.

Two days later they laid Nancy Ellen beside her mother. Then they

began trying to face the problem of life without her. Robert said

nothing. He seemed too stunned to think. Kate wanted to tell him

of her final visit with Nancy Ellen, but she could not at that

time. Robert's aged mother came to him, and said she could remain

as long as he wanted her, so that was a comfort to Kate, who took

time to pity him, even in her blackest hour. She had some very

black ones. She could have wailed, and lamented, and relinquished

all she had gained, but she did not. She merely went on with

life, as she always had lived it, to the best of her ability when

she was so numbed with grief she scarcely knew what she was doing.

She kept herself driven about the house, and when she could find

no more to do, took Little Poll in her arms and went out in the

fields to Adam, where she found the baby a safe place, and then

cut and husked corn as usual. Every Sabbath, and often during the

week, her feet carried her to the cemetery, where she sat in the

deep grass and looked at those three long mounds and tried to

understand life; deeper still, to fathom death.