Ernest Havel was cultivating his bright, glistening young cornfield one summer morning, whistling to himself an old German song which was somehow connected with a picture that rose in his memory. It was a picture of the earliest ploughing he could remember.

He saw a half-circle of green hills, with snow still lingering in the clefts of the higher ridges; behind the hills rose a wall of sharp mountains, covered with dark pine forests. In the meadows at the foot of that sweep of hills there was a winding creek, with polled willows in their first yellow-green, and brown fields. He himself was a little boy, playing by the creek and watching his father and mother plough with two great oxen, that had rope traces fastened to their heads and their long horns. His mother walked barefoot beside the oxen and led them; his father walked behind, guiding the plough. His father always looked down. His mother’s face was almost as brown and furrowed as the fields, and her eyes were pale blue, like the skies of early spring. The two would go up and down thus all morning without speaking, except to the oxen. Ernest was the last of a long family, and as he played by the creek he used to wonder why his parents looked so old.

Leonard Dawson drove his car up to the fence and shouted, waking Ernest from his revery. He told his team to stand, and ran out to the edge of the field.

“Hello, Ernest,” Leonard called. “Have you heard Claude Wheeler got hurt day before yesterday?”

“You don’t say so! It can’t be anything bad, or they’d let me know.”

“Oh, it’s nothing very bad, I guess, but he got his face scratched up in the wire quite a little. It was the queerest thing I ever saw. He was out with the team of mules and a heavy plough, working the road in that deep cut between their place and mine. The gasoline motor-truck came along, making more noise than usual, maybe. But those mules know a motor truck, and what they did was pure cussedness. They begun to rear and plunge in that deep cut. I was working my corn over in the field and shouted to the gasoline man to stop, but he didn’t hear me. Claude jumped for the critters’ heads and got ’em by the bits, but by that time he was all tangled up in the lines. Those damned mules lifted him off his feet and started to run. Down the draw and up the bank and across the fields they went, with that big plough-blade jumping three or four feet in the air every clip. I was sure it would cut one of the mules open, or go clean through Claude. It would have got him, too, if he hadn’t kept his hold on the bits. They carried him right along, swinging in the air, and finally ran him into the barb-wire fence and cut his face and neck up.”

“My goodness! Did he get cut bad?”

“No, not very, but yesterday morning he was out cultivating corn, all stuck up with court plaster. I knew that was a fool thing to do; a wire cut’s nasty if you get overheated out in the dust. But you can’t tell a Wheeler anything. Now they say his face has swelled and is hurting him terrible, and he’s gone to town to see the doctor. You’d better go over there tonight, and see if you can make him take care of himself.”

Leonard drove on, and Ernest went back to his team. “It’s queer about that boy,” he was thinking. “He’s big and strong, and he’s got an education and all that fine land, but he don’t seem to fit in right.” Sometimes Ernest thought his friend was unlucky. When that idea occurred to him, he sighed and shook it off. For Ernest believed there was no help for that; it was something rationalism did not explain.

The next afternoon Enid Royce’s coupe drove up to the Wheeler farmyard. Mrs. Wheeler saw Enid get out of her car and came down the hill to meet her, breathless and distressed. “Oh, Enid! You’ve heard of Claude’s accident? He wouldn’t take care of himself, and now he’s got erysipelas. He’s in such pain, poor boy!”

Enid took her arm, and they started up the hill toward the house. “Can I see Claude, Mrs. Wheeler? I want to give him these flowers.”

Mrs. Wheeler hesitated. “I don’t know if he will let you come in, dear. I had hard work persuading him to see Ernest for a few moments last night. He seems so low-spirited, and he’s sensitive about the way he’s bandaged up. I’ll go to his room and ask him.”

“No, just let me go up with you, please. If I walk in with you, he won’t have time to fret about it. I won’t stay if he doesn’t wish it, but I want to see him.”

Mrs. Wheeler was alarmed at this suggestion, but Enid ignored her uncertainty. They went up to the third floor together, and Enid herself tapped at the door.

“It’s I, Claude. May I come in for a moment?”

A muffled, reluctant voice answered. “No. They say this is catching, Enid. And anyhow, I’d rather you didn’t see me like this.”

Without waiting she pushed open the door. The dark blinds were down, and the room was full of a strong, bitter odor. Claude lay flat in bed, his head and face so smothered in surgical cotton that only his eyes and the tip of his nose were visible. The brown paste with which his features were smeared oozed out at the edges of the gauze and made his dressings look untidy. Enid took in these details at a glance.

“Does the light hurt your eyes? Let me put up one of the blinds for a moment, because I want you to see these flowers. I’ve brought you my first sweet peas.”

Claude blinked at the bunch of bright colours she held out before him. She put them up to his face and asked him if he could smell them through his medicines. In a moment he ceased to feel embarrassed. His mother brought a glass bowl, and Enid arranged the flowers on the little table beside him.

“Now, do you want me to darken the room again?”

“Not yet. Sit down for a minute and talk to me. I can’t say much because my face is stiff.”

“I should think it would be! I met Leonard Dawson on the road yesterday, and he told me how you worked in the field after you were cut. I would like to scold you hard, Claude.”

“Do. It might make me feel better.” He took her hand and kept her beside him a moment. “Are those the sweet peas you were planting that day when I came back from the West?”

“Yes. Haven’t they done well to blossom so early?”

“Less than two months. That’s strange,” he sighed.

“Strange? What?”

“Oh, that a handful of seeds can make anything so pretty in a few weeks, and it takes a man so long to do anything and then it’s not much account.”

“That’s not the way to look at things,” she said reprovingly.

Enid sat prim and straight on a chair at the foot of his bed. Her flowered organdie dress was very much like the bouquet she had brought, and her floppy straw hat had a big lilac bow. She began to tell Claude about her father’s several attacks of erysipelas. He listened but absently. He would never have believed that Enid, with her severe notions of decorum, would come into his room and sit with him like this. He noticed that his mother was quite as much astonished as he. She hovered about the visitor for a few moments, and then, seeing that Enid was quite at her ease, went downstairs to her work. Claude wished that Enid would not talk at all, but would sit there and let him look at her. The sunshine she had let into the room, and her tranquil, fragrant presence, soothed him. Presently he realized that she was asking him something.

“What is it, Enid? The medicine they give me makes me stupid. I don’t catch things.”

“I was asking whether you play chess.”

“Very badly.”

“Father says I play passably well. When you are better you must let me bring up my ivory chessmen that Carrie sent me from China. They are beautifully carv............