“But it’s not too late,” she went on. “It is never too late. From now on I mean to accomplish things before undreamed of. I am not only going to help about the housework, but during my spare moments I mean to work outside and develop this ranch. I’m sorry I got the wrong alfalfa patch. I’ll shut off the water here and start it over there. Go on and do whatever is necessary, pa, and don’t worry about the alfalfa. I feel like a new being already. My coma is over.”
“Your which?”
“My coma. I’ve been asleep—stunned—dazed. But thank goodness I see myself in the true light at last.”
“How d’ye keep them boots on?”
“I don’t. They stick every now and then, and I can’t pull ’em out of the mud. Then I have to step out and lift them free with my hands. I’m barefooted inside the boots.”
“And d’ye wash yer feet before ye put ’em in the boots ag’in?”
“Well—no. I can’t very well. They get all muddy again if I do. I’ll have to have smaller boots.”
“And how d’ye think I’m to get the mud outa the inside o’ them boots? Don’t they hurt yer feet, Nita?”
“Terribly. Little rocks get in. But I can stand it.”
Here her father’s weakening gravity forsook him entirely, and with his long arms he swept up boots, shovel, and girl and carried them to the house.