“Are you writing again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you must walk every day.”
“Oh, I do, rain or shine. I am going down the road this afternoon to look at the wheat fields and the oat fields and to see the boys and girls dropping corn!”
“And to wish that you were a little girl dropping corn?”
“No, indeed,” she said earnestly and solemnly. “I like my own life better than any life I ever knew in a book or out of a book.”
“When I count up my mercies I’ll remember that.”
She was dwelling upon those words of her father late that afternoon as she sauntered homeward with her hands full of wild flowers and grasses.
“Mystic, will you ride with me?”
A feeling of warmth and of tenderness ever crept into her heart at the sound of this voice.