Page:Maud Howe - A Newport Aquarelle.djvu/202

 from a fire. Not a chance flame lit by a wayward spark, but a neatly built camp-fire, cheerful and comfortable. The flames crackled about a gypsy kettle, and shone on a great white wagon standing tenantless by the wayside. The tired oxen were lying near by, their noses hidden by their bags of fodder. A group of people sat at a short distance from the blaze, just where their figures were lighted by the flame. A woman seated on the ground, an infant in her arms, looking up into the face of the man who stood behind her, erect, and in the uncertain light seeming to be of a heroic build. These three, all alone in the midst of the vast prairie, with hope for their guide, and love for their companion. This was a home, though the next evening would see the trio far on their journey, and the kettle would swing over a fire some twenty miles nearer its final destination.

For one moment was the life picture before Farwell, warm, happy, full of a deep