She circled the outskirts of the town and viewed the slum of “Swede Hollow.”  Wherever as many as three houses are gathered there will be a slum of at least one house.  In Gopher Prairie, the Sam Clarks boasted, “you don’t get any of this poverty that you find in cities—­always plenty of work—­no need of charity—­man got to be blame shiftless if he don’t get ahead.”  But now that the summer mask of leaves and grass was gone, Carol discovered misery and dead hope.  In a shack of thin boards covered with tar-paper she saw the washerwoman, Mrs. Steinhof, working in gray steam.  Outside, her six-year-old boy chopped wood.  He had a torn jacket, muffler of a blue like skimmed milk.  His hands were covered with red mittens through which protruded his chapped raw knuckles.  He halted to blow on them, to cry disinterestedly.

A family of recently arrived Finns were camped in an abandoned stable.  A man of eighty was picking up lumps of coal along the railroad.

She did not know what to do about it.  She felt that these independent citizens, who had been taught that they belonged to a democracy, would resent her trying to play Lady Bountiful.

She lost her loneliness in the activity of the village industries—­the railroad-yards with a freight-train switching, the wheat-elevator, oil-tanks, a slaughter-house with blood-marks on the snow, the creamery with the sleds of farmers and piles of milk-cans, an unexplained stone hut labeled “Danger—­Powder Stored Here.”  The jolly tombstone-yard, where a utilitarian sculptor in a red calfskin overcoat whistled as he hammered the shiniest of granite headstones.  Jackson Elder’s small planing-mill, with the smell of fresh pine shavings and the burr of circular saws.  Most important, the Gopher Prairie Flour and Milling Company, Lyman Cass president.  Its windows were blanketed with flour-dust, but it was the most stirring spot in town.  Workmen were wheeling barrels of flour into a box-car; a farmer sitting on sacks of wheat in a bobsled argued with the wheat-buyer; machinery within the mill boomed and whined, water gurgled in the ice-freed mill-race.

The clatter was a relief to Carol after months of smug houses.  She wished that she could work in the mill; that she did not belong to the caste of professional-man’s-wife.

She started for home, through the small slum.  Before a tar-paper shack, at a gateless gate, a man in rough brown dogskin coat and black plush cap with lappets was watching her.  His square face was confident, his foxy mustache was picaresque.  He stood erect, his hands in his side-pockets, his pipe puffing slowly.  He was forty-five or -six, perhaps.

“How do, Mrs. Kennicott,” he drawled.

She recalled him—­the town handyman, who had repaired their furnace at the beginning of winter.

“Oh, how do you do,” she fluttered.

“My name ’s Bjornstam.  ‘The Red Swede’ they call me.  Remember?  Always thought I’d kind of like to say howdy to you again.”