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Updated: May 8, 2025
And as for the winds of which Celia complained so bitterly, he loved them. His ears had never been out of the sound of them and they were very gentle winds sometimes, tender and loving with their own child born on the desert. They lulled him. They cradled him. They were sweet as Cyclona's voice singing him to sleep.
He stood there stilly for a long time, looking out of the window. Then there rushed through Cyclona's dream the heavy whirring roar of the wind, the moan of the wind, the wail of the wind. Cyclona started out of the dream with a cry. What had happened? What was it? What was it? It was as if her life had gone out all at once like the flame of a candle.
Seth had been hardly human if the thought of forgetting Celia and her indifference in Cyclona's arms had not more than once presented itself. It presented itself now with the strength of strong winds. Without home or kindred, without tie or connection, she was a flower in his pathway. He had only to reach out and pluck her and wear her on his heart. There were none to gainsay him.
Cyclona's heart was full at this; for Seth was far from sane, alas! when he talked of moving forests of trees to the barren prairies. The idea at last struck him as preposterous. "We will build tall trees," he continued quickly, as if to cover the tracks of his mistakes. "We will build trees that will taik root in the night and spring up before morning. Trees that will grow and grow and grow.
A dear defenceless thing without home or kindred, unprotected, uncared of, weak and in need of affection, in dire need of love. Helpless, unshielded, unguarded ... unprotected ... unguarded ... uncared for.... Seth frowned. The wind had wafted itself into his brain again. He was growing dazed. He caught his hand away from Cyclona's. He thrust his fingers through his hair.
Leaving Seth out here on the plains all by himself, grievin' for her, breakin' his heart for her, nearly losin' his mind with grief about her. "The money's Cyclona's. She worked for it, never thinkin' of the reward. She took care of the child and looked after Seth. She deserves all the good that can come to her, that girl does." "She does," assented the Professor.
"On that particular day the house was situated in the northern part of the State." He swapped legs. "But the next day," he resumed. "Well, you can't tell exactly where any house will be the next day in Kansas. "It was about noon and Cyclona's foster father was out in the cornfield, plowing. The wind, as usual, was blowing a gale.
"But you can see in her big, stretchy faraway eyes that she ain't thinkin' about Hugh Walsingham, that she's always thinkin' about Seth and wishin' it was him a drivin' with her in that stylish little trap of hers." She stopped to read a postal card. "Cyclona's a fine young woman," she resumed, "and a beautiful young woman, if she is brown as a gypsy, but the wind has left a wheel in her head.
He is a good big boy now, but Cyclona's taken care of that child ever since he come into the world putty near," and he recited the story of Celia's heartlessness. "What sort of man is the father?" queried Hugh with a manner of exaggerated indifference. "Seth? Why, Seth's one of the finest men you ever saw. And he's good-looking, too.
"'It was a strange sight, Jonathan said. "Mrs. Jonathan's and Cyclona's skirts, stockings, shirt waists, night dresses and handkerchiefs were strung along indiscriminately with Jonathan's trousers, coats, waistcoats and socks. Here and there, in between, prismatic quilts, red bordered tablecloths and fringed napkins varied the monotony. "'How are we ever going to get them down? asked Mrs.
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