The doctor got out and went forward to help her and discovered a young man sitting cozily in the carriage. He glanced at him contemptuously.
“Your harness is broken, have you got a string?” he asked abruptly.
“N-n-o, I haven't,” said the youth feeling about his pockets.
“Take your shoe-string. If you haven't got one I'll give you mine,” and he set his foot energetically on the hub of the wheel to unlace his shoe.
“Why, I've got one here, I guess,” and the young man lifted a reluctant foot. The doctor saw and understood. The little sister was to fix the harness in order to save her brother's brand new shoes from the mud.
“You'd better fix that harness yourself, my friend, and fix it strong,” was the doctor's parting injunction as he climbed into the buggy and started on.
“I don't like the looks of this slough of despond,” said Mary. The next minute the horses were floundering through it, tugging with might and main. Now the wheels have sunk to the hubs and the horses are straining every muscle.
“Merciful heaven!” gasped Mary. At last they were safely through, and the doctor looking back said, “That is the last great blot on our civilization—bad roads.”
After a while there came from across the prairie the ascending, interrogative boo-oo-m of a prairie chicken not far distant, while from far away came the faint notes of another. And now a different note, soft, melodious and mournful is heard.