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“I shall like Mr. Clark . . . I CAN'T call him 'Sam'! They're all so friendly.” She glanced at the houses; tried not to see what she saw; gave way in: “Why do these stories lie so? They always make the bride's home-coming a bower of roses. Complete trust in noble spouse. Lies about marriage. I'm NOT changed. And this town — O my God! I can't go through with it. This junk-heap!”

Her husband bent over her. “You look like you were in a brown study. Scared? I don't expect you to think Gopher Prairie is a paradise, after St. Paul. I don't expect you to be crazy about it, at first. But you'll come to like it so much — life's so free here and best people on earth.”

She whispered to him (while Mrs. Clark considerately turned away), “I love you for understanding. I'm just — I'm beastly over-sensitive. Too many books. It's my lack of shoulder-muscles and sense. Give me time, dear.”

“You bet! All the time you want!”

She laid the back of his hand against her cheek, snuggled near him. She was ready for her new home.