"'That is, until another cyclone takes a notion to move us.'"
CHAPTER VII.[ToC]
Across the purple prairie, the wondering stars blinking down upon him, the wind tearing at him to know what the matter was, the tumbleweeds tumbling at the heels of his broncho, his heart in his mouth, Seth madly rode in the wild midnight to fetch the weazened old woman who tended the women of the desert, rode as madly back again, leaving the midwife to follow.
After an age, it seemed to him, she came, and the child was born.
Seth knelt and listened to the breathing of the little creature in the rapture felt by most mothers of newborn babes and by more fathers than is supposed.
Now and again this feeling, which more than any other goes to make us akin to the angels, is lacking in a mother.