“I didn’t know, Lizzie, that a man could be as good as Luther. I’d always kind o’ hated men, an’ I thought I’d have t’ fight my way through, like th’ rest of th’ women, an’—an’—he’s that good an’ thoughtful of me, an’ of everybody else, that I’m clean ashamed of myself half th’ time. He nearly had a fit when’ he found out that I’d slipped with that wood. ’Twas ironing day, an’ th’ box got empty—an’ then, when th’ baby died, it just seemed as if he couldn’t stand it.”
She looked up at Elizabeth earnestly: “I never heard any one but th’ preacher pray out loud, Lizzie, an’—an’—somehow—well,” she stumbled, “Luther prayed so sweet, when he see it was gone—I—I ain’t thought of much else since. It—it seemed like th’ baby’d done something good t’ both of us.”
The spiteful, pettish face was for the moment ennobled by the reflected glory of another’s goodness and love. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a condition which makes heaven here upon earth. There was the harmony here in the “shanty” such as she coveted and strove in vain to establish in her own home. Of course there would be harmony where Luther Hansen was concerned: Luther was harmony. Ignoring his part in the little drama, she was wise enough to touch the other side of the story in her reply.
“These little ones bring blessings all their own, Sadie,” she said, giving the hand on the patchwork quilt a little squeeze.
There was that in the impulsive little touch which was to be a lasting reminder to Sadie Hansen that Elizabeth Hunter responded to the things which were making of her life a different story. They had found common ground, where neither scoffed at the other.
“Did your baby make you feel that way?” she asked earnestly.
When Luther came at five o’clock to say that John was waiting he found them, at peace, with the baby between them.
Luther tucked Elizabeth and her child into the unprotected wagon seat with concern.
“This wind’s a tartar. Pull th’ covers down tight over its face, Lizzie. What’s become of th’ buggy, Hunter?”