Handling qualitative data a practical guide Third Edition Richards
- 1. Visit ebookfinal.com to download the full version and explore more ebooks or textbooks Handling qualitative data a practical guide Third Edition Richards _____ Click the link below to download _____ https://ebookfinal.com/download/handling-qualitative-data-a- practical-guide-third-edition-richards/ Explore and download more ebooks or textbook at ebookfinal.com
- 2. Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be interested in. You can click the link to download. Postharvest Handling Third Edition A Systems Approach Wojciech J. Florkowski https://ebookfinal.com/download/postharvest-handling-third-edition-a- systems-approach-wojciech-j-florkowski/ A Practical Guide to Child Observation and Assessment Third Edition Hobart https://ebookfinal.com/download/a-practical-guide-to-child- observation-and-assessment-third-edition-hobart/ A Practical Guide to Scientific Data Analysis 1st Edition David J. Livingstone https://ebookfinal.com/download/a-practical-guide-to-scientific-data- analysis-1st-edition-david-j-livingstone/ Interchange Third edition Workbook 1A Richards Jack C. https://ebookfinal.com/download/interchange-third-edition- workbook-1a-richards-jack-c/
- 3. Practical Guide to ICP MS A Tutorial for Beginners Third Edition Robert Thomas https://ebookfinal.com/download/practical-guide-to-icp-ms-a-tutorial- for-beginners-third-edition-robert-thomas/ Simple Steps to Data Encryption A Practical Guide to Secure Computing 1st Edition Peter Loshin https://ebookfinal.com/download/simple-steps-to-data-encryption-a- practical-guide-to-secure-computing-1st-edition-peter-loshin/ A Practical Guide to Data Mining for Business and Industry 1st Edition Andrea Ahlemeyer-Stubbe https://ebookfinal.com/download/a-practical-guide-to-data-mining-for- business-and-industry-1st-edition-andrea-ahlemeyer-stubbe/ PRINCE2 A Practical Handbook Third Edition Colin Bentley https://ebookfinal.com/download/prince2-a-practical-handbook-third- edition-colin-bentley/ Managing Difficult People A Survival Guide For Handling Any Employee 2nd Edition Marilyn Pincus https://ebookfinal.com/download/managing-difficult-people-a-survival- guide-for-handling-any-employee-2nd-edition-marilyn-pincus/
- 5. Handling qualitative data a practical guide Third Edition Richards Digital Instant Download Author(s): Richards, Lyn ISBN(s): 9781446276068, 1446276066 Edition: Third edition File Details: PDF, 1.84 MB Year: 2014 Language: english
- 8. SAGE was founded in 1965 by Sara Miller McCune to support the dissemination of usable knowledge by publishing innovative and high-quality research and teaching content. Today, we publish more than 750 journals, including those of more than 300 learned societies, more than 800 new books per year, and a growing range of library products including archives, data, case studies, reports, conference highlights, and video. SAGE remains majority-owned by our founder, and on her passing will become owned by a charitable trust that secures our continued independence. Los Angeles | London | Washington DC | New Delhi | Singapore
- 9. HANDLING QUALITATIVE DATA A PRACTICAL GUIDE LYN RICHARDS THIRD EDITION
- 10. SAGE Publications Ltd 1 Oliver’s Yard 55 City Road London EC1Y 1SP SAGE Publications Inc. 2455 Teller Road Thousand Oaks, California 91320 SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd B 1/I 1 Mohan Cooperative Industrial Area Mathura Road New Delhi 110 044 SAGE Publications Asia-Pacific Pte Ltd 3 Church Street #10-04 Samsung Hub Singapore 049483 Editor: Katie Metzler Editorial assistant: Lily Mehrbod Production editor: Ian Antcliff Copyeditor: Sarah Bury Proofreader: Andrew Baxter Marketing manager: Ben Griffin-Sherwood Cover design: Shaun Mercier Typeset by: C&M Digitals (P) Ltd, Chennai, India Printed in Great Britain by Henry Ling Limited at The Dorset Press, Dorchester, DT1 1HD © Lyn Richards 2015 First edition 2006; second edition 2010. This edition 2015 Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means, only with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers. Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939150 British Library Cataloguing in Publication data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-4462-7605-1 ISBN 978-1-4462-7606-8 (pbk) At SAGE we take sustainability seriously. Most of our products are printed in the UK using FSC papers and boards. When we print overseas we ensure sustainable papers are used as measured by the Egmont grading system. We undertake an annual audit to monitor our sustainability.
- 11. Summary of contents Introduction 1 PART I SETTING UP 9 1. Setting up your project 11 2. Making qualitative data 35 3. Data records 63 PART II WORKING WITH THE DATA 83 4. Up from the data 85 5. Coding 103 6. Handling ideas 125 PART III MAKING SENSE OF YOUR DATA 141 7. What are you aiming for? 143 8. Searching the data 167 9. Seeing a whole 185 10. Telling it 205
- 13. Contents List of tables xi Companion website xiii About the author xv Preface xvii Acknowledgements xxiii Introduction 1 Starting points 1 Handling data 4 The shape of this book 6 PART I SETTING UP 9 1. Setting up your project 11 Placing the project in context 12 Purpose, goal and outcome 13 Designing the project 18 You and your data 26 To do 31 Suggestions for further reading 31 2. Making qualitative data 35 Understanding data 36 Preparing to ‘make’ data 43 Ways of making data 44 Data about your project (and you) 52 Is writing a problem for you? 57 To do 59 Suggestions for further reading 59 3. Data records 63 What will the records be like? 64 How big should a data record be? 66
- 14. contents viii Storing records with software 69 Working with your data records 76 When can you start analysing? 80 To do 81 Suggestions for further reading 81 PART II WORKING WITH THE DATA 83 4. Up from the data 85 Meeting data 87 Where do your ideas go? 91 Handling your discoveries 94 Drawing it – the early uses of models 94 Revisiting design 95 Revisiting and reviewing records 97 Writing it 99 Up to the category 100 To do 100 Suggestions for further reading 101 5. Coding 103 Qualitative and quantitative coding 104 What can you do with coding? 105 Ways of coding in a qualitative project 106 Revisiting the coded data 114 Coder reliability in qualitative research 117 Avoiding the coding trap 118 Establishing your personal data processing style 120 Writing about coding 121 To do 121 Suggestions for further reading 122 6. Handling ideas 125 Organization and creativity 126 Catalogues of categories 128 Writing your ideas 137 To do 138 Suggestions for further reading 139 PART III MAKING SENSE OF YOUR DATA 141 7. What are you aiming for? 143 What are you seeking? 144 What can you achieve? 146
- 15. contents ix What would be satisfactory? 148 What might it look like? Possible outcomes 149 How will you know when you get there? 152 How will you know if it is good enough? 157 To do 163 Suggestions for further reading 163 8. Searching the data 167 Moving forward 168 The data–theory process 169 Searching coding 171 Searching the text 176 Building on searches 179 Reporting searches 180 To do 181 Suggestions for further reading 182 9. Seeing a whole 185 Seeing what’s there – and what’s not there 185 Ways of seeing 186 Accounting for and validating your ‘seeing’ 199 To do 202 Suggestions for further reading 203 10. Telling it 205 Start with what you have written 206 What if it won’t write? 210 Planning a qualitative report 212 What about validity and reliability? 214 Using your data 216 Reports that don’t work 218 Concluding your study 221 To do 222 Suggestions for further reading 222 References 223 Index 229
- 17. List of tables 5.1 Two very different modes of coding 104 9.1 Seeing and testing synthesis and patterns 187
- 19. Companion website Handling Qualitative Data, third edition, is supported by a companion website: https://study.sagepub.com/richards3e. Visit the website to access two sets of useful resources to accompany the book: • • Methods in Practice: the stories of ten projects (from eight countries and as many qualitative methods), are told in the researchers’ own voices. How was the project set up, what data were sought and created, how did the researcher work with the data, what actually happened during analysis and reporting? • • Qualitative Software: this is not a summary of the current state of the various software products aimed at qualitative researchers. But it does tell you where to go for such summaries. And more importantly, it advises you before you go shopping for software. Should you use qualitative soft- ware, and how? How to find impartial, useful and non-marketing advice about software products? It then provides help on how to manage your relationship with your software, including a brief handbook of advice to help you ask the necessary questions as you startstepping into software.
- 21. About the author Lyn Richards has a highly unusual range of relationships with qualitative research. After undergraduate training as a Historian and Political Scientist, she moved to Sociology. Her early work as a family sociologist addressed both popu- lar and academic audiences, with a strong motivation always to make the funded research relevant to the people studied, and the qualitative analysis credible to those affected. Each of her four books in family sociology was a text at univer- sity level but also widely discussed in popular media and at community level. During her tenure as Reader and Associate Professor at La Trobe University in Melbourne, she won major research grants, presented and published research papers, was a founding member of a qualitative research association and taught qualitative methods at undergraduate and graduate level, supervising Masters and PhD students. She strayed from this academic pathway when challenges with handling quali- tative data in her family and community studies led to the development, with Tom Richards, of what rapidly became the world’s leading qualitative analysis software. They left the university to found a research software company, in which for a decade Lyn was Director of Research Services, writing software documenta- tion and managing international teaching of the methods behind the software. Designing and documenting software taught her to confront fuzzy thinking about methods, and to demand straight talking, clarity of purpose, detail of technique and a clear answer always to ‘Why would we want to do that?’ Teaching methods to thousands of researchers in dozens of disciplines in 14 countries, she learned what worked and what didn’t. From those researchers, graduates and faculty in universities and research practitioners in the world beyond, she learned their many ways of handling data, on and off computers, and their strategies for mak- ing sense of data. Handling Qualitative Data is a direct result of this experience. It offers clear, prac- tical advice for researchers approaching qualitative research and wishing to do justice to rich data. Like her previous book, with Janice Morse, Readme First, for a User’s Guide to Qualitative Methods it strongly maintains the requirements of good qualitative research, assumes and critiques the use of software and draws on prac- tical work, helping researchers whose progress has been hindered by confusion,
- 22. about the author xvi lack of training, mixed messages about standards and fear of being overwhelmed by rich, messy data. Throughout this hybrid career, Lyn continued contributions to critical reflection on new methods, as a writer and a keynote speaker in a wide range of international conferences. She has life membership of the International Sociological Association and its Methodology section. Her writing aims always to cut through barriers to high quality qualitative research and to assist researchers and teachers in making the inevitable shift to computing whilst maximizing the benefits for their research processes and outcomes. On leaving software development, she took an Adjunct Professorship at RMIT University where she is now Associate Research Fellow of the Centre for Applied Social Research (CASR) and coordinates an active, informal and splendidly supportive qualitative research network group.
- 23. Preface Are you at risk of acquiring qualitative data, whether by careful, theoretically based research design, by practical need or by accident? Are you prepared for rich, com- plex, unstructured data records, which may rapidly appear in confusing profusion? Are you doubting you can do justice to those records, and to the people whose accounts you have been privileged to acquire? Are you prevented from starting by messages about the difficulty of doing good qualitative work, the debates about epistemology, or the necessity to learn confronting specialist software? This book is designed to assist when qualitative data have to be handled, and to guide you through those barriers to doing it. In decades of helping research- ers worldwide, I have learned that those who come to qualitative research ‘data first’ rather than ‘methods first’ are often the most motivated and critical. But they are also held back by lack of preparation in ways to handle data records, and by messages about the mystique of doing, or even thinking about doing, qualitative research and the heavy tasks of doing it in a digital age. So too, often, are those who have had some training in the study of the theory of methods – methodology. However adequate their understanding of the philosophy behind what they are trying to do, they may have no practical idea of how they would handle data if they ever had some. This book starts there. It is, therefore, very different from most texts on qualita- tive methods. Firstly, it is about handling data – working with data in order to produce adequate and useful outcomes. The title carries two messages. Qualitative data don’t speak for themselves, but have to be handled if they are to be analysed. And handling data is something you can learn and do well as you get started. It’s amazing how little of the methodological literature is in this area. Even texts with titles about ‘analysing’ or ‘doing’ qualitative research spend consider- ably more time on ways of making data than on what you would do with such data if you ever actually had any. From the perspective of those who have to do it, texts on qualitative method are often inaccessibly high up in the misty moun- tains of academic discourse. By horrid contrast, literature on the tools you need for qualitative research, and particularly on digital tools, suggests you might never get started if burdened with learning software functions and with very
- 24. preface xviii negative messages about their results for research. In this third edition, these messages have been strongly pursued. Secondly, this book is about the agency of the researcher. The researcher designs and creates a project and then also creates data, collaboratively with those studied, and it is the researcher who then does the analysing of that data. In this new edition there is increased emphasis on issues of ethics as you negotiate that collaboration. In every section, the book confronts the critical issues of reflexivity, alerting the reader to their relationship with their research questions, design, conduct and records, and advising on how these reflections can be recorded and used in validating analysis. Thirdly, the book aims to provide practical advice and build confidence so that, by following it, a good job can be done. An irony of our time is that just as quali- tative research has become acceptable and required across most areas of research practice in social enquiry, it has been shrouded in clouds of debate about reality and its representation. These debates enthral and entice those of us with time and training to engage in them, but send a strong message to many practitioners that qualitative research is possibly a futile endeavour from the start. It seems to me that, since the world undoubtedly needs good qualitative research (and does not need bad research), all researchers require assistance in designing projects and handling data thoughtfully, reflexively, ethically and successfully. This book is for students of qualitative methods who have been taught to reflect on their data and their relationship to data, but it is also for the many (out of and inside academia) who have neither access to courses on epistemological issues nor time to do them, yet are confronted with a project and wish to learn how they can best deal with it. They need practical, accessible and informed advice on how to do their task well, reflecting on their relationship to their data, on what would be a credible account and how properly to produce one. Fourthly, the book covers neither the range of qualitative methods nor how dif- ferent methods derive from different epistemological positions, nor does it teach any particular method. Instead, it daringly assumes that handling data well and producing a good research outcome does not require knowing the range and rules of any particular method, let alone all. Most texts start with the assumption that qualitative data are accessible only via a researched understanding of all or at least some methodologies, and that a project must be located within a coherent methodology. I started there too and I strongly hold a commitment to what I term methodological fit, the ways in which question, data, ways of handling data, ways of constructing an outcome and ways of justifying it fit together. I wrote about that in Readme First (Richards and Morse, 2013). In the present book, however, I aim to convey this fit to research- ers whether or not they have the time or opportunity to learn from or engage in methodological debates. My prime goal is to help them to do justice to data. And I aim to encourage them, whatever their methodological persuasion, to reflect on their relationship to their project and their data. Since the first edition of this book appeared, the feedback has consistently told me this was useful.
- 25. preface xix You will find here no specification of the rules for working in any particular method. Texts that do address the tasks of data handling usually do so from within one method, providing detailed rules for the processes associated with, for example, a particular version of discourse analysis, grounded theory or phenomenology or preparation for an ethnography. Such learning will of course provide a firm basis for research, and as a teacher and writer I have set it as a goal for students. This book consistently urges the reader who can do so to pursue literature within the appropriate method for their study. But it also assumes that there is much to be learned for any study from many methods. Methodological ghettoism serves neither those outside nor those working inside the closed world of a particular method. All qualitative researchers need basic skills for handling data, and these skills are used across methods. Methodological fit and skills for handling data can be learned by those working in any particular method or by those who are not steeped in the literature particular to one method. All novice researchers need pragmatic, informed and understandable assistance in the processes of making useful data records, in handling and working with the data on the road to a good analysis, and in showing that it is good. And finally, this book confronts directly the undeniable fact that qualitative research is now done on computers. Unlike most texts (see review by Paulus et al., 2013), it assumes that you will use computer software when handling qualitative data and consistently offers advice on maximizing the benefits of doing so, and dealing with the challenges, particularly the challenge of having your project con- fined to the ‘box’ of a dedicated software product. All researchers use computers in at least some context and those who do not also use tools that assist qualitative research are clearly restricted. For methods texts to treat computer handling of qualitative data as an optional extra (most do), makes it far harder to discuss prac- tically what we can now do with data. But the constraining of research by software packages is a recently recognized challenge which this new edition addresses in every chapter. Software has transformed the tasks of handling qualitative data. This book advises of course on techniques that can be done on paper or in your head, along- side ones that can be undertaken only by using software. It warns of and tackles the challenges of computer-assisted handling of data, and the issues to be con- sidered. But it assumes you will use software, and urges you to use many digital tools. It does not teach any particular software – learning software is another task (there’s help for this task on the website). Nor does the text assume that any particular software is to be used. And it firmly avoids assuming that the techniques made available by qualitative software necessarily improve research practice. Indeed, as you’ll discover from the warnings in each chapter, and from the website, I have serious concerns about the ways accepted specialist software shapes and constrains research. Moreover, very importantly, this book does not assume that software use will be limited to the small group of commercial packages specifically marketed to
- 26. Discovering Diverse Content Through Random Scribd Documents
- 27. The girl obeyed her with a wondering smile. They stood back to back, and Blanche measured with her hand. “Exactly,” she cried. Then she turned and studied the girl for some critical moments. “Yes, and just about the same build. Here,” she hurried on, “put your foot against mine. That’s it.” “Sure, sure,” Blanche exclaimed, as the two feet came into contact. “My shoes will fit you, too. Oh, this is bully. My word, but you shall be the belle of that farmers’ ball, I promise you. Sit down, my dear, and I’ll tell you about it.” Blanche sat again, and they gazed across the table at each other. Molly was all smiling hope and expectation, and Blanche was happy in the opportunity which chance had afforded her. “Listen, Molly. I’ve got the sweetest forget-me-not blue dance frock you’ve ever dreamed about,” she cried impressively. “It’s just the latest thing, made by a swell New York house. I’ve—never even worn it. I got shoes to match, and lovely, lovely silk stockings that’ll set all the other women crazy with envy. My, you’ll just look sweet in it. And then I’ve a beautiful fur-lined wrap. You can wear that on your journey, under a coat. Now, when’s the dance?” “Why soon—very soon. When seeding’s through. But——” Blanche was in no mood to listen to any protest. She had come to see Molly because Jim had asked her. The thing she had in mind now was out of her own impulsive liking for the girl herself. “It’s useless, my dear,” she laughed. “My mind’s quite made up. You’re going to the dance in that frock, if I have to come and dress you myself.” The light in Molly’s eyes was ecstatic. “But—but if I muss it?” she cried, in sudden alarm. “Muss it? Why, you dear, simple child, that’s right up to you. It’s a—a present, silk stockings, and shoes, and wrap, and all—with my best love.”
- 28. Lightning and Molly were standing together down by the barn. The door stood wide open. Blanche had just ridden off on her Pedro. The old man was observing the creature’s gait with all the admiration of a real horseman. The rider interested him far less. Molly, too, was gazing after the departing visitor. But the horse held none of her interest. She was thinking of Blanche. She was contemplating again those smiling eyes. And a great joy was surging in her heart. The whole thing seemed to her like some fairy-story, or some happy dream from which she would surely wake up. She drew a profound sigh, and Lightning promptly withdrew his fascinated gaze from the departing horse. “Ther’ ain’t nothing better’n the whole darn world than them four legs, an’ a bar’l like that,” he said. “That plug’s worth fi’ thousand dollars.” Molly’s smile searched the old man’s eyes. “An’ the girl on its back’s worth—a million,” she said decidedly. Lightning spat. “She’s surely an upstander,” he admitted. “But she ain’t a circumstance beside her plug. I ain’t ever seen a human that could be. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ better. Not in the world.” He spat again to emphasise his opinion. “I know something better.” The girl’s eyes were dancing with delight. She was dying to proclaim her good fortune and happiness to all the world. As nothing better was to hand, Lightning would serve. “She’s going to hand me a present of a swell gown, an’ real silk stockings, an’ shoes, an’—an’ a fur-lined cloak. It’s for the dance. An’ she says I’ll be the belle of the whole ball.” “Dance? What dance?”
- 29. “Why, the farmers’ ball in Hartspool.” The old man’s face was a study. His expression passed from astonishment and incredulity to frank contempt and disapproval. “Ball? Say, Molly, gal, you ain’t goin’ to that bum hoe-down?” he cried almost desperately. Molly’s eyes widened with resentment at the man’s contemptuous tone. “It’s not a hoe-down,” she cried hotly. “It’s—it’s a swell ball, an’ you know it. Sure I’m going to it. And the suit’s forget-me-not blue, and the stockings are real silk—to match.” Quite suddenly the eyes of the old man hardened fiercely. “How you goin’?” he demanded almost roughly. Perhaps it was the tone. Molly was looking straight into the eyes of her loyal old friend, and a spirit of mischief prompted her. “Why, Andy McFardell’s going to take me. He’s getting tickets.” There was a moment of deathly silence. Then Lightning thrust a gnarled forefinger into his mouth and hooked the chew of tobacco out of his cheek. He flung it on the ground and trod it underfoot. Then he hunched his shoulders and turned away. In an instant contrition swept through Molly’s heart. “You haven’t eaten, Lightning,” she said gently. The old man paused and glanced round. “Eaten?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, Molly, gal,” he said almost dejectedly. “Guess I don’t feel like eatin’—now.”
- 30. CHAPTER XVII A Golden Moment ANDY McFARDELL’S drift was infinitely more rapid than appeared. The current of indolence was strong in him, and, to a nature such as his, it was irresistible. Since the day of the visit of Molly Marton to his homestead, and, later, the infinitely less welcome visit of Lightning, not another rod of seeding had been done, in spite of the week of perfect weather that had passed over his head. The simple truth was that Andy McFardell belonged to a type to which discipline is an essential, to which it is sheer salvation. Robbed of the iron rule of the Mounted Police the man had quickly degenerated to the condition of a storm driven, rudderless, derelict. Inclination swayed him like the yielding grass on a wind-swept plain. The sturdy resistance of the forest tree was impossible to him. His moods impelled, and he drifted before them. The drift had set for sheer and growing indolence where his farm was concerned. The fierce enthusiasm which had first supported him, had died out like the fitful blaze of an unfed camp-fire. And with its passing only the ashes of all that was best in him remained behind. Two purposes dominated him entirely just now. The one was the thing which the shrewd mind of Lightning had suggested. And the other was the storm of passion which Molly Marton had set stirring in his selfish soul. Molly’s visit had served him with further excuse. It had served him with another three days of respite from the work of his farm; with another three days of Barney Lake’s hotel at Hartspool; another three days of the allurements of its poker game and Rye whisky. He
- 31. had forthwith ridden into the township to obtain the tickets necessary for the farmers’ dance. On his return home there was not the smallest pretence of making up his leeway of neglected work. He was glad enough to continue his drift. He had obtained the tickets. He must forthwith convey the news to Molly and obtain her definite reassurance that she would let him take her to the dance. He found Molly in her hay corral. She was at work in sun-bonnet and cotton overall, clearing the ground with rake and fork, and making ready for the new cut of hay, which operation was the next in the routine of the year’s labours. He had ridden hard. And when he drew rein at the corral fence the horse under him was pretty badly tuckered. It was caked with sweat and dust on the matted remains of its thick winter coat, and looked generally the mean thing that McFardell’s neglect had reduced it to. Had the rider been any other, the smiling eyes under the girl’s sun- bonnet would have been full of serious condemnation. But with Andy McFardell’s coming the girl’s heart was beating high. She was concerned only with the portent of his visit, and thinking of the wonderful secret which lay between her and that kindly, generous, stranger-woman, Blanche. “Why, Andy,” she cried. “I just hadn’t a notion you’d get along so soon. Is—is it all—fixed? The dance, I mean? You—you got the tickets?” The man laughed as he slid out of the saddle. Molly was all eagerness. “Doesn’t that beat it?” he cried, in mock amazement. “Say, I’ve ridden hell-for-leather, worried to death guessing. You see, I’d paid for two tickets and hadn’t definite word from you I was to take you along in to that dance.” He laughingly threw up his hands, and Molly came to the corral rail and rested her folded arms upon it. She was more than content.
- 32. Andy was good enough for any woman to gaze upon. In the saddle he had none of the horsemanship of Lightning, in spite of the latter’s sixty years. But he had the military seat of the Police. He was clad in a loose cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbows. His breeches were the uniform breeches of the Police, with the yellow stripe removed, and they fitted closely over his sturdy limbs. His top boots, too, belonged to his police days. So, too, the heavy, rusted steel spurs upon his heels. But it was neither his clothing, nor his horsemanship which concerned Molly at that moment. It was his good-looking face, the sturdy breadth of his shoulders, and the fine muscles of his arms which stirred her simple heart so deeply. She ducked under the rail and came to him. “Why,” she laughed slily, “my mind was fixed directly I quit you.” Andy shook his head. “But not before. You left me guessing,” he said reproachfully. Then he glanced swiftly about him. “Where’s Lightning?” Never in her life had laughter more impelled Molly. She felt somehow she wanted to laugh all the time. “Out on the ploughing,” she cried. “He’s breaking a new five acres.” Andy pulled an envelope from the pocket of his shirt. He opened it and drew out the contents. And the while he was watching the play of interest and expectancy on the girl’s expressive face. He passed her the gaudily got up tickets, and waited while she read down the letter press. “Fi’ dollars!” she breathed in consternation, as she came to the price of the ticket. Then she looked up incredulously. “You paid fi’ dollars for each? Fi’ dollars for—me? Oh, Andy!” The man laughed. “Why not?” he cried, a hot light leaping into his eyes. “I’d do more than that any day. I’d hand out everything, if it left me without a
- 33. cent in the world—for you. You see, little girl, I want to hand you a real swell time. Dancing don’t mean a lot to me. With a girl it’s surely diff’rent. Say, Molly, you just don’t know the thing you’ve been to me around these hills. I’d never have got through or made good without you. Say——” The man’s words had come quickly. His tone rang with a sincerity which, at the moment, was completely real. And as he made a sudden movement towards her, a movement which there could be no mistaking, the passion in his dark eyes was an expression of the stirring of his whole manhood. The girl stood like some simple, defenceless, fascinated creature. And only a wealth of rich colour dyed the soft roundness of her cheeks, and a shy responsive gladness lit her big eyes. Coquetry was impossible to her. So, too, was any girlish, unmeant denial. The passion of love she had nursed ever since her great realisation well- nigh suffocated her. It completely robbed her of all power for connected thought and speech. For Molly the next few moments were filled with a wild rush of confused emotions, and unutterable happiness. It seemed to her that life could never again afford her a moment of delight comparable with that through which she was passing. She hardly knew; she certainly did not pause to think. For one wild moment she was caught and tightly held in the arms which had never failed to stir her admiration. She seemed to feel, in the delirium of it all, the strong beating of the man’s heart against hers. Then came those kisses upon her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. And as she abandoned herself to them her young heart was driving fiercely to make return. Then—then—it was over. She had released herself, and she knew not how or why. Her returning senses revealed to her his passion-lit eyes gazing down into hers. Her bosom was heaving in a tumult of emotion, and every limb of her body was a-shake. But happiness, supreme happiness that was well-nigh exaltation, thrilled her. Life seemed at the very pinnacle of its amazing beauty.
- 34. In that brief, delirious moment of spiritual expression Molly’s whole world had somehow become transfigured. Everything was changed. Her whole life had changed out of the even, unemotional calm she had hitherto known. It seemed as if a great new light were shining somewhere deep down in her soul, diffusing wonderful rays to the uttermost extremities of her being, lighting a path of unspeakable joy down the channels of her senses. The golden sunlight of the day about her had intensified. It had become doubly brilliant and more full of meaning. The old homestead, so full of the calm beauty of her childhood’s sheltered happiness, the very trees and hills about it, all these, everything, had doubled the depth of their concern for her innocent mind. Then the man with his passionate eyes, his strong arms, and sturdy body. He, too, had shared in the transformation. No longer was he the struggling object of her girlish pity; no longer was he a creature who had played the cruel rôle of fortune’s shuttle-cock. All that was wiped out. It was all brushed away by the gilded artistry that had re- adorned her vision of life. He was the golden superman of her soul, crowned with the sublime halo of her young love. They both stood speechless. Then at last it was the man who broke the silence. “You—aren’t mad with me, Molly?” he asked, still holding her by the hands that were so soft and warm in his. But his tone was without the doubt his words implied, and his smile was full of confidence. Molly shook her head. Then she released her hands which moved in a queer little gesture that told so much. “Oh, Andy!” she cried. And the exclamation seemed to set loose the tide of her surging feelings. “Mad with—you? You? Oh, no. How could I be? I—I love you, Andy. Why,” she added with innocently widening eyes, “I guess I’ve loved you right along always, just always.” The man’s gaze had been averted as though something of the girl’s innocence abashed him. But in a moment it came back swiftly, hotly.
- 35. His hands were flung out, and he caught Molly up again in his arms. He held her crushed closely to him, and talked between the kisses which he rained upon her up-turned face. “I just know, little girl,” he cried thickly. “I surely know it all. I been through it. It’s been the same here, right from the first, when you happened along with me opening out my clearing. I haven’t ever been able to forget. I didn’t want to anyway. I——” He broke off in a fashion that startled the girl in his arms. And a sudden twinge of alarm shot through her senses. She looked up into the face she loved, and realised that the whole expression of it had changed. The eyes were cold and hard, and they were searching the distant bluff round which the grass-trail to the ploughing skirted. It required no second thought to tell her the meaning of the change. Besides, there was a sound upon the warm air, the sound of the rattle of chain harness and plodding hoofs. “It’s Lightning,” she said, recovering herself. Andy’s arms fell from about her. And together they stood searching the bluff. Presently they beheld Jane and Blue Pete appear from amongst the tree-trunks. And Jane’s capacious back was bearing the grotesque burden of the old choreman with his guns. He was sitting sideways on her vast expanse of rounded breadth, and his heavily- booted feet were dangling. Molly spoke quickly, anxiously. “It’s just dinner, Andy,” she said. “You’ll stop around an’ eat?” She knew Lightning’s antagonism, and she wanted to make sure before the old man came up. But Andy shook his head unsmilingly. “I just can’t stop around, little kid,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the team with its queer burden. “Why?”
- 36. Molly was disappointed, and her disappointment found expression in her monosyllable. Andy shrugged. Then he moved over to his horse and busied himself at the cinchas of his “condemned” police saddle. He spoke over his shoulder. “No, sweetheart,” he said quietly, but decidedly. “It’s no use. I got to get right back to work. If I stop around to eat the day’ll be gone before I make home, and ther’s the—seeding. Besides——” “Yes?” Andy indicated the choreman who was crossing the open towards them. Then, quite abruptly, he turned from his saddle and held out his hand in farewell. He was smiling, and his smile told Molly that his action was for the benefit of the man who was observing them as he came. “No,” he said, in a tone intended for Lightning’s ears. “I won’t stop around to eat. You see, I just got along to fix things with you, and tell you I’d got the tickets for the dance. There’s a week. Just a week for you to fix your party frock in. You’ll fix it good, eh?” he laughed. “You see, we hill folks need to show the town dames. I fancy you being a real show-up to ’em.” He had swung into the saddle, and Molly laughed happily. He had said the one thing that gave her the opportunity she needed. In spite of her feelings and emotions of the moment the memory of Blanche’s visit, Blanche, with wonderful generosity for all she was a stranger, still stood out in her mind a matter of tremendous moment. Her femininity was abounding. Nothing in the world, it seemed, was left that could add one tittle to her happiness. Her eyes were dancing as Lightning came up, and the great team halted of its own accord. The old man remained where he was on the mare’s back, while some form of greeting passed between the home team and the stranger. He barely even responded to Andy’s nod of greeting.
- 37. “Don’t worry, boy,” Molly cried airily. “I’ll sure be fixed right. I’ll be wearing a swell gown. I certainly will. When’s the day?” Lightning spat out a chew, and took a fresh bite at a fragment of plug he drew from his hip pocket. But his hard old eyes remained fixed on the other man’s face as though he were reading him down to the depths of his very soul. He uttered no word. Not a single word. “Thursday. I’ll be along with the spring wagon.” Lightning’s jaws chewed harder as Andy made his reply. There was not the flicker of an eyelid to indicate that which was passing behind his stony regard. Molly was becoming uneasy at the old man’s silence. She wanted to force him into speech. But she refrained, fearing the result. “So long, Molly.” Andy raised a hand in salutation, and his horse stirred as he lifted his reins. “Thursday—sure.” Molly gazed smilingly up into the man’s face under the cold gaze of the silent Lightning. “Thursday—sure,” she responded. “So long, Andy.” The horse moved off, and Andy McFardell glanced round at the choreman. “So long, Lightning. I’m going after that matter—after Thursday.” But the old man still made no reply. He sat there on his old mare’s back stolidly intent and watchful. His unfriendliness was adamant. And Molly became completely alarmed. Andy rode off. His way took him up past the barn, and he disappeared beyond it, round the lean-to workshop, and headed eastwards for his home. The moment he had passed out of view Molly turned on Lightning who had slid down from Jane’s broad back. A flush dyed her pretty
- 38. cheeks, and an angry sparkle lit her eyes. “I—I won’t stand for it, Lightning!” she cried, stamping her foot on the hard, dusty ground. “It’s mean. It’s so mean I can’t believe it. He’s been right into Hartspool and paid five dollars for my ticket. He’s paid that for me! Just to hand me a swell time. I——” “Don’t ’ee do it, Molly, gal. Just don’t ’ee do it.” Lightning was transformed. All the stony light of his eyes had changed to one of humble pleading as he stood before the child he loved better than life itself. His lean face seemed suddenly to have become more deeply lined, and his tatter of whisker looked more than usually grotesque and pathetic. His hands were outheld in appeal. “Fer the love o’ yer dead father, Molly, don’t ’ee go fer to do it,” he went on. “He’s bad. He’s rotten——” “Don’t dare say it, Lightning! Don’t ever dare say it. He’s not bad. He’s—oh!” Molly broke off with an exclamation of supreme disgust and helpless indignation. And she fled headlong towards the house as though Lightning’s very presence were something she could no longer endure. The old man gazed after her. Then the yearning in his eyes gave place to an expression which no thought of Molly could have inspired. He turned to his team, and it was the comfortable, gentle Jane he led, and addressed, as he moved towards the barn. “It ain’t no use, old gal,” he said, with a shake of his grizzled head. “I’ll sure jest hev to do it one day.” He hunched his shoulders in the fashion peculiar to him. “Guess I ain’t blind yet, an’ my nerve’s dead steady, an’ I’m surely glad that’s so.”
- 39. CHAPTER XVIII The Spy AS Andy McFardell rode home from the Marton farm two definite channels of thought preoccupied him. And curiously enough that which had his passionate infatuation for Molly for its inspiration made by far the lesser claim upon him. Perhaps it was the result of his confidence. Had Molly been more difficult, had she been less of the simple child she was, had she had knowledge and experience of the world of men, or realised something of the physical charm she exercised, doubtless she could have transformed his confidence into an agony of doubt, and plunged him into a vortex of maddening suspense that would have made any other interest impossible to him. As it was his dominating concern had become the obvious antagonism of Lightning. He had left the farm under no misapprehension on the score of the old choreman’s regard. The cattleman had displayed his displeasure at his intrusion without any attempt at concealment, and, deep in his heart, McFardell understood the reason. The reason of it left him undisturbed. And he smiled to himself as he wondered what the man’s attitude would have been had he been witness to that which had taken place just before his return from work. But the attitude of Lightning brought back to his mind that other matter, when the old man had been at such pains to seek him out, and impress upon him the opportunity held out to him. It looked to McFardell like a foolish bluff in the light of Lightning’s unvarying antagonism. Yes, he felt sure it was a bluff—in a way. The man was
- 40. anxious to be rid of him. He was anxious and worried to death about —— He laughed softly to himself. Then of a sudden his mood became deadly serious. He dismissed Lightning’s purposes from his mind. It did not matter a thing to him what the cattleman’s object might be. Molly and he understood each other, and—— But he knew that every word Lightning had said about Dan Quinlan was right. He had heard all the talk in Hartspool. And Hartspool was very much given to plain speaking on matters concerning cattle and grain. He had told Lightning he would look into the matter after the dance in Hartspool. But long before he reached his home his mind was definitely made up. Quinlan’s was thirty-five miles or so away up in the hills from his place. Well, it would help to fill in the week before the dance if he outfitted himself for a few days on the trail. He would pay his promised visit to the queer Irishman and spy out the land—before the dance. In fact—right away. So it came that two days later McFardell found himself on the trail, or—as he preferred to think of it—on patrol. It was useless to make pretence that he was anything but the police officer he had always been. He was on patrol, that work he had always loved in the days before his disaster. And as he rode the tangled country of the foothills his spirits rose, and he found himself almost thankful to the old man who had prompted him out of his own secret purposes. It did not matter a thing. Lightning was old and well-nigh decrepit, and his antagonism need make no difference. He, McFardell, would do the thing he contemplated just as it suited him. And meanwhile the hills around Quinlan, and Quinlan’s place itself, would be investigated very thoroughly before he returned on the day of Hartspool’s dance.
- 41. The watcher moved stealthily through the forest. Eyes and ears were alert. They were tuned, by long years of training, to the hush of the woods. He was afoot. And his movements gave out no sound as he passed amongst the myriad of bare tree-trunks, supporting their well-nigh impenetrable roofing of sombre foliage. His feet were moccasined, and they padded softly on the rotting carpet beneath them. Far down the aisles of the forest he could see a sunlit clearing beyond. And the voices of the cattle came back to him something muffled by the intense forest hush. The sharp barking of dogs left no other doubt in his mind than that of the chances of his own discovery through canine scent and inquisitiveness. That, however, was in the lap of the gods. He was not unduly concerned. He was moving up against the wind, which in the shelter of the forest was almost indistinguishable, and his position he felt to be more than favourable. As he neared the forest limits the wide expanse of the clearing opened out to his astonished eyes. And so his progress slowed down and finally ceased altogether. There was no need to go farther. He had no desire to court disaster. Besides from where he had halted he could see all that he needed and study it at his leisure. It was an amazing sight. He had looked for the squalid hiding-place of a secret cattle camp, where the thief could secret and re-brand the beasts he had stolen. He had looked for the ordinary thing which Police work had taught him to expect. But that which he discovered was altogether different, and left him impressed and—disappointed. There were corrals whose extent astounded him and left him metaphorically rubbing his eyes. They were stoutly built and of a permanent nature, and they were literally teeming with cattle amongst which a large number of men were busily at work. Beyond the corrals were other buildings. There were log shanties, and barns, and all the equipment of an extensive ranch. The place was literally a hive of industry, and bore no resemblance whatever to that which he had looked for.
- 42. The human figures amongst the cattle interested him deeply. At the distance he got the impression that they were mostly Indians, or, at least, half-breeds. But without doubt there were white men amongst them, and two particularly caught and held his interest. One was a powerfully built man clad in typical buckskin, while the other looked to have very little relation to the hill country at all. Furthermore, judging by the mass of snow-white hair he discovered under the brim of his prairie hat, he was an old man. But clearly these two were supervising the activities in progress. He remained where he was until the last detail of the thing he was gazing upon had been well photographed and tabulated in his mind. Then he withdrew. He would have been glad of a closer view of the two white men, but caution deterred any further approach. He moved away and presently again became swallowed up by the shadows of the forest. And the direction of his going was southerly, where he looked for a view of the valley below. When he reappeared again it was at a break where an undergrowth walled the limits of the woods, and he pressed through it till he came to the final screen. He held the foliage apart while he peered out beyond. Below him lay the valley of grass and woodland bluff, and it was alive with grazing cattle. Now his interest quickened. It was not the sight of the cattle. That had been expected. There was something of even greater importance within his view. Away to his left on the sloping, hither side of the valley, and, he judged, somewhere adjacent to the clearing he had recently overlooked, a wide field of building operations looked to have been just begun. There were the cuttings ready for the foundations of a big barn or house. There, too, lay a wealth of hewn logs hauled ready for building. And even as he watched a four-horse team appeared from the woods, farther down the valley, skidding a load of freshly hewn lumber. He drew a deep breath.
- 43. Lightning was wrong. So, too, was Hartspool. All the tittle-tattle going on in that place was miles wide of the truth. Here was no cattle thief’s encampment. The extent of the organisation he had been so secretly observing could have only one meaning. How it had been achieved was something beyond his understanding. Where Dan Quinlan had obtained his capital to invest in such an enterprise it was impossible for him to suggest. The one outstanding fact remained. Here, away up in the heart of the hills, was a great and thriving cattle industry, and Dan Quinlan was the man who had created it. McFardell’s discoveries at Quinlan’s were a source of bitter disappointment to him. They were the shattering, the complete shattering of his dream. He cursed himself bitterly that he had listened to Lightning’s suggestion, and the idle talk of Hartspool. It was always the way. Folks jumped to absurd conclusions out of suspicion of anything that was beyond their understanding. He knew he had been thoroughly fooled, and since Lightning had helped in his befoolment most of his bitterness was directed at him. But his long training in the Police had deeply impressed his mind. And, furthermore, the idea of somehow blackmailing his way back into the force had taken desperate hold of him. His inclination had been all for returning home and letting Lightning know the fool he had made of both himself and Andrew McFardell, but his training prevailed. He asked himself the meaning of Quinlan’s rise to fortune, and determined to see the thing through to the end. He would explore to the limit of his time, and look for any other secret these hills might discover for him. So he went back to his camp, deep hidden from all chance discovery by Quinlan, and planned out his further campaign.
- 44. Andy McFardell was returning home after complete failure. He was moodily contemplating his wasted effort. He had done everything possible; he had left nothing unexplored, sparing neither himself nor his horse; and now there was nothing left but to return again to the life which he had learned to hate and detest. His way lay down the same valley where recently Molly had sought and found her missing cows. He was travelling over almost the identical ground which her pinto had covered. He had found the same water-hole, and his weary horse had refreshed itself at the same stream that came down from the cold recesses of the far-off hills. The day was hot, and the air swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. But these things made no impression upon him, and only his horse suffered. The net result of his five days’ work was a final conclusion that his chance of buying his way back into the Police was practically nil. The whole position was clear enough. While he could discover not a tithe of evidence that the Irishman and his band of Indians were on the cross, yet there was much that needed explanation. The renegade was no longer the white Indian, simply existing in his miserable home in the hills by trap and gun. No. That may have been his original case. But it was so no longer. He was ranching on a big scale. And furthermore his stock was mainly highly bred Pole-Angus cattle, the numbers of which suggested a capital value running into anything over fifty thousand dollars. Where had the money come from? But more important still, how had that industry grown up without other outside evidence than the sale of young stock in the Hartspool and Calford markets? In spite of the shattering of his dream of getting back into the Police Andy McFardell felt that the position was still not without possibilities. Moving down towards the creek his horse flung up its head in a startled fashion. He was riding over the stretch of blue grass, at the very spot where, so short a while since, Molly had finally discovered her cows. Ahead lay the bush-clad banks of the stream. And away to
- 45. the left of him the slope of the valley opened sharply into the gorge where Molly had parted from the man she called Silver-Thatch. McFardell was concerned at once. He knew the meaning of his horse’s pricked ears, and the faint sound of its whinny. Another horse was somewhere in the vicinity, and, since the Marton farm was something less than five miles on, he searched the direction of his horse’s gaze for a sight of Molly. To his mind it must be she. Lightning would be likely to have moved out from his work on the ploughing. There were only a few yards of the open left and he bustled his horse on. The beast moved with eagerness and passed into the bush. Then, in a moment, Andy flung himself back in the saddle and jerked his horse to a standstill. He was face to face with a horseman on a superb black beast with the small broad head and diminutive ears of a thoroughbred. But he at once became absorbed in the rider. He was the white-haired man he had seen in the clearing up at Quinlan’s. The stranger had drawn rein. He sat quite still, contemplating the dishevelled appearance of McFardell and his tuckered horse. Then a slight, inscrutable smile lit his eyes, and he nodded. The next moment he lifted his reins, and the eager creature under him moved off like a flash and disappeared into the bush ahead. It was almost uncanny. Not a word of greeting had passed; scarcely a sign. The man had smiled, that was all, and—vanished. Andy stared after him where the bushes had closed behind him. He made no attempt to follow. His dark eyes were frowning with heavy thought. And it was not till the last sound of the hoofs of the stranger’s horse had completely died away that he bestirred himself. Then it was that he suddenly became transformed. His eyes blazed with a fury of excitement. He lifted his reins and jammed his spurred heels into the flanks of the beast under him, and rode straight at the bush where the other had disappeared. “God!” he muttered. “It’s Jim Pryse!”
- 46. CHAPTER XIX The Moment LIGHTNING was squatting on a box beside the doorway of the bunk- house that had sheltered him for years. The dawn was just beginning to break. A low, yellow tinge was spreading over the eastern horizon, and the sky was cloudless. The stars were still shining to the west, and south, and north. But their brilliance was past, and they were fading slowly before the dawn. The chill of the hills was in the air, but it made no impression on the tough old body of the squatting man. Like everything else in Nature he was indifferent to it. The man’s lap was spread with a grease cloth. On the ground beside him lay the belt that was usually about his waist, with its holsters, two long, three-strapped open holsters. One of his two guns was in its place in its holster. The other was lying in pieces in his lap. The old man’s mood was one of content. His night had been long and wakeful, but with the first streak of dawn he had crawled from under his rough blankets and sought the sure solace of his present occupation. He was cleaning his beloved guns, handling them with something of the mother love for her child. The contemplation of these priceless friends of his early days never failed to lull him into a quiet, assured confidence and content. When trouble beset they were his whole resource. And just now trouble was looming heavily. It was the dawn of the day of the farmers’ ball in Hartspool. So he saw to it that his guns were ready. Their carefully filed hair-triggers needed little more than a breath of wind to release, the beautifully
- 47. adjusted ivory sights were without blemish, and the seven chambers contained not one single speck of rust. With these things so, ease relaxed the tension of his troubled thought. He hated the day that was dawning. He hated the folk who had designed the farmers’ ball. But more than all he hated, with all his untamed soul, the man who had stolen Molly’s peace of mind and transformed her into a woman. “Two-gun” Rogers snapped his second gun to. He opened it again. And again he closed it. Then, with a deep, satisfied breath, he stooped over and replaced it in its holster. Then he folded the grease-stained cloth and thrust it into his hip pocket, and, stooping again, picked up his belt. He stood up from his box, tall, and lean, and vigorous. And the process of adjusting the belt about his waist preoccupied him. A moment later he turned and stared out at the golden prospect of the sunrise. The sun had cut the horizon and its fiery rays rent the heavens with slashes of furious fire. It was almost intolerable to gaze upon. Yet the man stood before it with the unflinching gaze of an old eagle. He kicked the box he had been sitting on back within his doorway. And, with a hunch of his shoulders, he moved on quickly in the direction of the house. The cook-stove was waiting his attention. In all his years Molly had never been permitted to light it. The cook-stove remained unlit. Lightning had not yet passed into the house. He was standing just outside the door, and his eyes were gazing down upon something which seemed to bar his way. It was two securely lashed sacks bulging with their contents, and the old man’s gaze was speculative as he studied their contours, their lashings, and the loose attached labels which gave them the appearance of having been delivered by mail.
- 48. After a profound study, which could not possibly have yielded enlightenment, Lightning resorted to the next most obvious procedure. He bent down and examined the labels. There was one to each sack. They were addressed in a clear, bold handwriting to “Molly” at “Marton’s Farm.” But they gave no indication whence they came and the old man was left to his own resources. For awhile these looked to be distinctly barren. Then, slowly, a change of expression heralded inspiration. After a few more moments he gingerly stepped over the mysterious bundles and passed into the house. Molly’s week had been passed in excited anticipation and growing anxiety. And in the end anxiety supervened over every other emotion. At first happiness had well-nigh intoxicated her. Life, the simple daily life of her farm, had been transformed with everything else. The labours that were her routine were accomplished in something like a dream, a dream wherein the good-looking face of a man was always near to her, looking on, encouraging, and smiling his approval of her efforts. In her the great love that had swept into her young life was no sickly, unwholesome sentiment. It inspired her. It supported her. It gladdened every moment of her day, and stimulated her spirit. She dreamed her dreams as she went about her simple duties. She dreamed, in the fashion of every other woman, of the home she would make for the love with which she had crowned her man. And the home which Molly contemplated was the home she had always known. She had yielded her love, and with it went all she was, all that was hers. There were no reservations. No less than her farm could be the setting wherein her love should find its home. Every day she looked again for the man without whom the meaning of life would be completely lost to her. She did not expect him, but she looked for him. She knew. She understood. It was spring, and
- 49. he was far too good a farmer, she told herself, to neglect the season. No, she did not expect his coming, but she looked for it, and her yearning was deep, and full of a profound content. Then there was that other. Each day with her first waking moments expectancy leapt. Her trust was without question. An assurance, whithersoever it came, was an assurance. A promise would be fulfilled, or why should it be made? Life for Molly had no deceit. So each day she looked for the coming of Blanche, or of her messenger. She yearned for the coming of Blanche’s promised party frock as she yearned for nothing else in life. Blanche had promised that she should be adorned as no farmer’s wife in Hartspool could possibly be adorned. And adornment, at that moment, meant something to her it had never meant before. It was for the eyes of her man to gaze upon. It was for the added attraction she might possess for him. It was that he might be proud of, and pleased with, the love she had so abundantly yielded him. So each day she looked for Blanche’s fulfilment of her given word, and with the passing of each she reassured herself of the morrow. And so came the night before the day, and the promise still remained unfulfilled. That night the climax of her anxiety smote her. She said not one word to Lightning. She uttered no word of complaint. But the smile was less ready in her eyes; there was a curious, deep sinking of her buoyant spirit, and, for the first time, she contemplated the possibilities of the non-fulfilment of the promise she had relied upon. She had prepared to retire to her bed that night in a dejection of spirit which Lightning was swift to realise. And for all his hatred of the thing the coming day meant, his manner of parting from her was infinitely gentle. “That swell dame couldn’t lie,” he declared spontaneously. “Ther’s surely eyes you ken look into, Molly, gal, an’ see right through to the truth back of ’em. Her’s was that way.”
- 50. And as he prepared to take his departure for his bunk-house, his hand rested encouragingly upon the girl’s soft shoulder. When Molly entered the living-room at sun-up the next morning, and found Lightning completing his task at her stove, she was without her customary greeting for him. Lightning glanced up from his labours and discovered the anxious searching of her gaze. He smiled. It was a curious, twinkling smile that never got beyond his eyes. But those it lit in a fashion that must ordinarily have seemed impossible. “Say, Molly, gal,” he observed, with a studied contortion of his features intended to express physical pain. “Guess the rheumatiz’s got my left hinge some. I’d take it kindly fer you to dump the ash bucket for me.” He finished up with another fierce contortion as he rose from his knees before the stove. And, in a moment, Molly was all sympathetic concern. “Why, I’m sorry, Lightning,” she cried. “I’ll fix the hoss oils right away. You haven’t had a touch of that a whole winter. It surely is the ploughing. The flat’s damp with the spring freshet. I’ll fix a good bottle before I eat.” She seized the bucket of ashes standing ready as the crackling of the wood in the stove developed into a roar of flame up the iron stove pipe. She moved towards the door, and Lightning’s voice followed her. “Them iles is mighty good dope, but I don’t guess them’s my need. It’s the saddle. It’s the saddle I was raised to. And I bin weeks on my feet. The saddle’ll fix it better’n hoss dope.” The girl had flung open the door to pass out, but she stood stock still where she was, the heavy bucket firmly grasped in one hand. The old man watched her, and his eyes had strangely softened. He beheld a flush of excitement break out upon her soft cheeks, and
- 51. then—and then the bucket fell to the ground and overturned its whole contents upon the immaculate floor. “Lightning! You knew!” The living-room was littered with the ravishing contents of the carefully packed bundles. The ashes had been swept up by the willing hand of Lightning, while Molly’s deft, excited fingers dealt with her treasure. Gone for the while was all thought of the breakfast that should have been in preparation. Gone was every other consideration, swept out of mind by that supreme moment of gladness. What else could matter? Two great bundles in their waterproof wrappings, enclosed in stout sacks. The contents? Ah, those wonderful contents. The fairy godmother had done her work with due regard for the conventions of magic. She had waved her wand, and transported her burdens to the sheltering storm doorway of Molly’s home in the night. That was understood. It was clear enough to the simple minds of these two children, the one so far travelled on the journey of life, and the other standing at the very threshold of the age of joy. The messenger, whoever he was, had travelled with a pack horse. That was clear enough. And his instructions must have been very, very definite, and carefully considered. Clearly he had been admitted to the secret of it all. He must arrive in the night, when the world was wrapped in slumber, with only the twinkling eyes of the stars to see, and the full moon smiling down her beneficence. He must steal upon the silent house and deposit his friendly burden all unseen. Then in the morning, then—then—— In her heart Molly felt that only Blanche could have planned so heavenly a surprise. It seemed well-nigh impossible that the sacks could have contained all that wealth of delight. The first of the two to be opened was
- 52. given up to the afterthoughts of a generous mind. It was a delicious collection of creature comforts that had nothing to do with apparel. It was food delicacies such as no ordinary store in Hartspool could have provided. And here again was shown the consummate purpose of the sender. The whole thing was designed without a hint of charity. It was a present of only those things which no money could have provided out of the stock of a prairie store. There were candies that must have come from some big city. There were bottled fruits of a quality Molly had never seen. There were foreign preserves in wide variety. There were sauces and flavourings for preparing food. Even Lightning’s appetite was whetted, and he forgot the occasion of it all. No, there was no charity in it; only a supreme kindliness. Then the second bundle, softer and infinitely lighter than the first. The girl’s cheeks reflected an almost painful excitement as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. When the last of the covers was torn aside Molly drew such a breath that Lightning forgot the amazing display of luxurious garments that lay revealed. He watched only the hungry eyes devouring greedily all the beauty of tone and texture which the girl’s fingers were moving amidst. The whole thing was beyond him. Molly looked to be in a sort of trance. The beautiful fur wrap she almost ignored. It was fur, something she understood, something, in however inferior a quality, that had long since entered her life. Beneath it, enfolded in tissue paper, lay the party frock. It was gauzy and diaphanous, and of such a colour and material that was quite beyond her wildest dreams. Molly raised it gently, tenderly. It was so slight, and so—so delicate. It seemed to her her hands, those hands that were used only to her work, must inevitably crush and completely ruin it. But with its removal a quick intense exclamation broke from the girl. Beneath it lay something that held her completely spellbound. It was several layers of garments of the most exquisite silk and crêpe-de- chine. They were those delicious things which are the dream of any and every woman’s life, whatever her station. Something so
- 53. irresistible that, once possessed, life becomes impossible without. And the warm fingers, accustomed only to the homeliest materials, moved amongst them, fondling them, and telling the old man looking on an emotion which was utterly outside his crude understanding. There was everything there, everything even to the shoes and those necessities of the girl’s dark hair which the sender had deemed essential. Blanche’s promise had been fulfilled, her pledge had been redeemed with a prodigal generosity that almost dazed the simple farm girl. Molly sighed deeply. It even seemed to involve an effort to raise her eyes from the fascinating spectacle set out upon the well-scrubbed table. “I can hardly believe, Lightning.” The girl’s words came scarcely above a whisper, and the old man watched her closely. In a moment his mind had leapt back to the meaning of it all. The smiling enjoyment of Molly’s delight passed out of his eyes, and they hardened again to their natural glitter. He remained without reply, and the girl roused herself. Quickly and deftly she replaced the garments and enfolded them in their wrappings. And she talked the while. “Lightning,” she cried, and the excitement of it all was still thrilling in her tones. “You got to help me. This is my day. My day,” she repeated almost tenderly. Then she went on quickly and almost sharply. “You’re mad about Andy. You’re mad because he’s my beau. Remember this, and get it good. I love Andy. I just love Andy with my whole heart. Whether you like him, or whether you don’t one day he’s going to be boss around this farm, just the same as he’s boss right in—here.” She pressed her hands over her gently swelling bosom. “Since father died I guess you’ve been real good to me. You been so good to me I just can’t tell you about it. Well”—she drew a deep breath—“you aren’t goin’ to quit being good to me because of Andy?” She shook her head. “You surely aren’t. You see, folks can’t
- 54. just help these things. I mean—I mean I—I love Andy. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t if I could. Won’t you help me still? Won’t you quit hating him?” The suddenness, the earnestness of Molly’s appeal almost caught the old cattleman off his guard. And he stood staring down at the refolded bundle she was about to remove to her room while he prepared his reply. Then, very deliberately, he shook his head, and gazed at her out of his framing of loose whisker and grey hair. “Andy’s your beau all right, Molly, gal,” he said, in his harsh way. “The thing I feel fer that boy don’t matter a’ curse. You can’t help the way you feel about him. Wal, I don’t guess I’m no diff’rent. Leave it that way. I ain’t no sort of archangel, or any pie-faced psalm-smiter. I got one notion in life. That’s you. I’m goin’ to see you fixed right if hell itself throws a fit and busts up the throne o’ glory. If Andy’s the boy that’s goin’ to fix you right I’m right behind him waggin’ a banner, with a halo around my thatch, an’ a pair o’ dandy wings dustin’ the sand out o’ my eyes, an’ talkin’ pie like a Methody Meetin’. But if he ain’t? If that boy sets you worryin’, if that boy hands you a haf-hour o’ grievin’, why, I’m after him like a bitch wolf chasin’ feed in winter. That goes, Molly, gal. Don’t you worry a thing. Sure, this is your day, gal. It’s yours, all of it. An’ I’m ready to weep around that boy’s neck same as if I’d no more sense than a blind sheep at lambin’ time.” It was long past the midday meal that the sun of Molly’s day reached its meridian. The afternoon was well advanced. Lightning had betaken himself to his labours, and the manner of his going had been sufficiently characteristic. “Guess I’ll quit you now, Molly, gal,” he had said. “Ther’s things in life as I see ’em it ain’t no good trying to boost the way you’d fancy ’em. With your notion fixed that way ther’ ain’t no sort of sense ’cep’ to leave ’em alone till they hurt you. Your Andy, boy’ll get along, an’
- 55. when he comes I don’t guess you’ll be yearnin’ to hev the remains o’ my life joinin’ in your party. So I’ll beat it right now to my ploughing. Hev a time, kid. Hev a real, swell time with them dandy fixin’s, an’ when you need me, why, I’ll just get around.” So Molly had the afternoon to herself and the heaven of dreaming her young soul yearned for. She was more than content with Lightning’s going. He was right enough in his estimate of her mood. There was nothing, and no one, must come between her and the wonderful thing that was hers. From dinner to the time of Andy’s arrival with his team and spring wagon was none too long for all Molly had to do. It was perhaps the most beautiful three hours in her life. For all that had gone before when the man had taught her her first meaning of love, these hours in contemplation of herself, and the beautiful garments that had been showered upon her by the generous hand of Blanche, were perhaps her real awakening to the meaning of her womanhood. The whole thing was so deliciously expressive of her ardent youth. In her precise little way she had promptly decided there should be no half measures. Nothing but completeness could satisfy her. So it came that a great boiler was set on the stove, and the iron bath, in which her weekly laundry was done, was made ready. Nothing would have induced her to defile the precious finery with a body that had not been specially prepared. Her bath was an expression of wonderful restraint, but she went through with it with a resolve that was quite beautiful in its self- denial. The whole time of it was one of infinite anticipation and yearning for the array of beauty laid out awaiting her in her bedroom. At last the great moment came, and the joy of it all was beyond words. She lingered in a state of ecstasy over each detail of her dressing. Some of it was easy, even to her untutored mind; some of it was fraught with such bewilderment that she came near enough to despair. Inside out, wrong way round, the girl found herself well-nigh
- 56. frantic through her lack of knowledge. But patience served her truly in the end, and her little mirror reassured her. The transformation was complete. No Cinderella was ever more richly endowed. She gazed for minutes that swept swiftly on at the wonder which Blanche’s wizardry had created. Her eyes shone with delight as they gazed at the beautiful picture they beheld looking back at her out of the old mirror. Blanche had judged rightly. Their figures were almost identical, so the delicate blue frock revealed itself in its most ravishing aspect. Yes, the eyes gazing back at her were like twin stars in the velvet setting of a moonlit sky. Her carefully coiled hair, shining with satin- like sheen, was surmounted by paste brilliants which had been selected with such care and taste by the woman who had sent them. And the string of pearl beads about her soft, white throat were an adornment incapable of increasing its beauty. The straightness of the cut of the frock itself entirely disguised the soft contours of her youthful figure, and the arms, bare to the shoulder, were white, and soft, and round, with perfect formation of her trained muscles. Then her feet, and the length of silk hose below the edge of the duly shortened skirt. The fascination of these things was something that left the girl almost bewildered at the change. The hose revealed the ivory tint of the flesh beneath and her diminutive feet, usually encased in heavy highlows, or gum boots or even buckskin moccasins that made them look broad and flat, seemed, in their beautifully shaped covering of silver tissue, utterly incapable of supporting the substantial burden for which they were designed. The rattle of Andy’s spring wagon pulling up outside her door sent the warm blood rushing into Molly’s cheeks. Her moment had come, that moment for which for seven anxious days she had waited, and of which she had dreamed. Her inclination was to rush out and greet him, and so reveal to him the wonder of her physical transformation. But she denied the impulse.
- 57. Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to specialized publications, self-development books, and children's literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system, we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading. Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and personal growth! ebookfinal.com