She was not an attractive
personality, and Mrs. Burke derived little comfort from her presence.
Willard was away a great deal teaming, working desperately to get
something laid up for the winter. The summer excursion, with its
laughter, its careless irresponsibility, had become a deadly grapple
with the implacable forces of winter. The land of the straddle-bug had
become a menacing desert, hard as iron, pitiless as ice.
Now the wind had dominion over the lonely women, wearing out their
souls with its melancholy moanings and its vast and wordless sighs. Its
voices seemed to enter Blanche Burke's soul, filling it with hunger
never felt before. Day after day it moaned in her ears and wailed about
the little cabin, rousing within her formless desires and bitter
despairs. Obscure emotions, unused powers of reason and recollection
came to her. She developed swiftly in sombre womanhood.
Sometimes Mrs. Bussy came across the prairie, sometimes a load of
land-seekers asked for dinner, but mainly she was alone all the long,
long days.
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