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tracks."
    The woman in her wanted desperately to resort to tears, but the woman in her also refused her even that small comfort.
    "Don't ya dare," she warned herself, "don't ya dare give him thet satisfaction."
    She held her head high, eyes straight ahead and remained that way until they reached the house. Contemptuously she ignored any help that Clark might have given her, and climbed down over the wheel, managing to tear her dress even farther. He placed Missie on the ground and Marty scooped the child up rather roughly and went into the house. Missie seemed unbothered by it all and paid no attention as her new
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    mama went noisily about starting another fire in the kitchen stove, the last one having died out.
    Another meal to prepare-- but what? It caused her further embarrassment, but Marty knew that it would have to be pancakes again. That was about the only thing that she really knew how to make. Well, let him choke on them. She didn't care. Why should she? She owed him nothing. She wished that she had stayed in her wagon and starved to death. That's what she wished.
    Amazingly enough, Marty's fire started and the fine cook- stove was soon spilling out heat. Marty didn't even think to be grateful as she stormed about the kitchen, making coffee and preparing her batch of pancake batter. She'd fry a few pieces of ham rather than bacon, she decided.
    She really couldn't understand why it bothered her so much that all of her efforts since coming to this house had met with such complete failure. She shouldn't care at all, and yet she did-- much as she didn't want to. Underneath, Marty felt deeply that failure was a foe to be combated and defeated. It was the way she had grown up and it was not easily forsaken now.
    While the griddle was heating, she cast an angry look at Missie.
    "Now you stay put," she warned, then hurried out to bring in all of her washing before the night's dampness set in.
    When Clark came in from the barn, supper, such as it was, was ready. If he was surprised at pancakes again, he did not show it. Marty burned to realize that his pancakes had been just as good as hers.
    "So what?" she stormed. "My coffee be okay."
    It must have been too, because when she again missed seeing Clark's empty cup, and he got up to refill it, he remarked, "Good coffee," as he poured her second cup. Marty's face burned again.
    After supper she cleared the table and washed Missie up for bed. She still felt like shaking the little tyke each time that she touched her but refrained from doing so.
    When Missie had been tucked in and Marty had washed
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    her own hot, dusty feet, she excused herself with a murmur, and, gathering her things from a chair in the sitting room, took them to her bedroom and shut the door. It would soon be necessary to light the lamp. She carefully folded her worn dresses and undergarments, laying them on her bed. If only she had a needle and some thread. But she wouldn't ask him, she determined. Never!
    She sat down on her bed to allow herself a more comfortable position for her self-pity. It was then that she noticed a small sewing basket in the corner behind the door. For a moment she couldn't believe her amazing find, but upon crossing to the basket she discovered more than she had dared to hope for.
    There was thread of various colors, needles of several sizes, a perfect pair of scissors, and even some small pieces of cloth.
    Determinedly Marty settled down. Sewing, now that was one thing that she could do. Though mending hardly fit into the same category as sewing, she felt.
    She was dismayed as she tried to make something decent out of the worn things before her, and the longer she worked the more discouraged she became. She had attacked the least worn items first, but by the time she reached the last few articles she was completely dejected. They'd never last the winter and it was a sure thing that she'd never ask him for anything. Never! Even if she was forced to wear nothing but rags.
    She