"I mean in cities like—like—Bismarck," she said, a trifle consciously.
"Perhaps—some—eh—let me see." He was perplexed. He saw the eager light in her face; saw that, for some reason, she was striving to compare herself with the women of the settled districts—and to learn from him the very things she had feared might bring dissatisfaction with her life. He did not wish to teach discontent. He would not tell an untruth. So he created a diversion by taking up his ulster and searching in a capacious pocket.
"But they—they—don't plow."
David Bond brought forth a limp and battered Bible. "No," he said; "no, they—they don't plow."
"Ah!" She looked into the fire. Of a sudden, two memories had returned—one, of the passing musicians, with their nudging and insolent smirks; the other, of a man who had leaned back in his saddle and laughed—after all, perhaps, not at her name.
"I—I suppose they're more like Marylyn," she faltered.
The evangelist adjusted his silver-bowed spectacles and smiled down at her. "And if they are, would it worry you, daughter?"
She shook her head slowly, and looked away.
He turned his back, so that both lantern-and firelight could reach his pages, and, opening the Book at random, began to read. The chapter done, he turned round and glanced at her again. Her face was still averted.
He rose to retire. She put Marylyn gently aside and rose with him.