Suddenly, and
entirely subconsciously, she felt her kinship with life, her relation to
the lovely May day which was more like June than May--and a rare thing
for Kenmore--whose seasons lapsed into each other as calmly and
sluggishly as did all the other happenings in that spot known to the
Canadian Indians as The Place Beyond the Wind--the In-Place.
Across Priscilla's straight, young shoulders lay a yoke from both ends of
which dangled empty tin pails, destined, sooner or later, to be filled
with that peculiarly fine water of which Nathaniel Glenn was so proud.
Nathaniel Glenn never loved things in a human, tender fashion, but he was
proud of many things--proud that he, and his before him, had braved the
hardships of farming among the red, rocky hills of Kenmore instead of
wrenching a livelihood from the water. This capacity for tilling the soil
instead of gambling in fish had made of Glenn, and a few other men, the
real aristocracy of the place. Nathaniel's grandfather, with his wife and
fifteen children, had been the first white settlers of Kenmore. So eager
had the Indians been to have this first Glenn among them that it is said
they offered him any amount of land he chose to select, and Glenn had
taken only so much as would insure him a decent farm and prospects.
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