At six, when the light faltered in as through ground
glass and bleakly identified the chairs as gray rectangles,
she heard his step on the porch; heard him at the
furnace: the rattle of shaking the grate, the
slow grinding removal of ashes, the shovel thrust into
the coal-bin, the abrupt clatter of the coal as it
flew into the fire-box, the fussy regulation of drafts—the
daily sounds of a Gopher Prairie life, now first appealing
to her as something brave and enduring, many-colored
and free. She visioned the fire-box: flames
turned to lemon and metallic gold as the coal-dust
sifted over them; thin twisty flutters of purple,
ghost flames which gave no light, slipping up between
the dark banked coals.
It was luxurious in bed, and the house would be warm
for her when she rose, she reflected. What a
worthless cat she was! What were her aspirations
beside his capability?
She awoke again as he dropped into bed.
“Seems just a few minutes ago that you started
out!”
“I’ve been away four hours. I’ve
operated a woman for appendicitis, in a Dutch kitchen.
Came awful close to losing her, too, but I pulled her
through all right. Close squeak. Barney says
he shot ten rabbits last Sunday.”
He was instantly asleep—one hour of rest
before he had to be up and ready for the farmers who
came in early. She marveled that in what was
to her but a night-blurred moment, he should have been
in a distant place, have taken charge of a strange
house, have slashed a woman, saved a life.
What wonder he detested the lazy Westlake and McGanum!
How could the easy Guy Pollock understand this skill
and endurance?
Then Kennicott was grumbling, “Seven-fifteen!
Aren’t you ever going to get up for breakfast?”
and he was not a hero-scientist but a rather irritable
and commonplace man who needed a shave. They had
coffee, griddle-cakes, and sausages, and talked about
Mrs. McGanum’s atrocious alligator-hide belt.
Night witchery and morning disillusion were alike
forgotten in the march of realities and days.
Familiar to the doctor’s wife was the man with
an injured leg, driven in from the country on a Sunday
afternoon and brought to the house. He sat in
a rocker in the back of a lumber-wagon, his face pale
from the anguish of the jolting. His leg was
thrust out before him, resting on a starch-box and
covered with a leather-bound horse-blanket. His
drab courageous wife drove the wagon, and she helped
Kennicott support him as he hobbled up the steps,
into the house.
“Fellow cut his leg with an ax—pretty
bad gash—Halvor Nelson, nine miles out,”
Kennicott observed.
Carol fluttered at the back of the room, childishly
excited when she was sent to fetch towels and a basin
of water. Kennicott lifted the farmer into a
chair and chuckled, “There we are, Halvor!
We’ll have you out fixing fences and drinking
aquavit in a month.” The farmwife sat on
the couch, expressionless, bulky in a man’s dogskin
coat and unplumbed layers of jackets. The flowery
silk handkerchief which she had worn over her head
now hung about her seamed neck. Her white wool
gloves lay in her lap.
