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If he put them here with all their faculties, was it His fault if they failed? He was very tired. His fingers rested lovingly upon the weapon that was to send him to the other world. He was very tired. He was very tired. By and by he placed the weapon to his temple, taking careful aim. In a blinding flash of light he saw Cyclona.
"I wonder," mused the Post Mistress, "if the cyclone put the clothes away in the presses when it took them down from the walls." It was as the Post Mistress had said. Cyclona was the heiress of the Magic City. As Seth had predicted, she sold his land in its heart for more money than she knew what to do with.
He found Cyclona and implored her to keep the child while he hitched up the cart and drove the mother away over the same road she had come to the station.
He took the child from the arms of Cyclona, who sat by the fire cuddling it, and held it close to his heart. "He has been crying," she told him, "every single minute since you have been gone. Crying! Crying! No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't quiet him."
Sometimes he called her Cyclona, and then again he called her Charlie; for what with his grief and the wail of the wind, his mind had become momentarily dazed. Full well Cyclona knew the story of the Magic City, having heard it again and again, but it was only of late when Seth had given up all hope of Celia's returning to the dugout that he commenced to plan the beautiful house.
There was the heavy roar of the wind, the wild and woeful wind of the prairies, and stillness. Some visitors from the East to the Magic City, whose fame was now widespread, were driving gaily by the beautiful house, which was one of the choice show places of the town. Cyclona, sitting by the window, turned her wide, soft eyes their way.
So he took Cyclona's rein and led her broncho over the prairie to Celia's door, the girl, laughing at the idea of being led, chattering from her saddle like any magpie. He knocked at Celia's door and soon her face, white, Southern, aristocratic, in sharp contrast with the sunburned cheek and wild eye of Cyclona, appeared.
He set back the chair and came tip-toeing forward. Cyclona raised her head and looked at him dreamily. "Hush!" she whispered. "Be very quiet ... He has gone to sleep." "Brumniagen" is a name given to those wares which, having no use for them at home, England ships to other countries.
It was as if it, too, suffered the agony of mortal pain in sympathy with the child. Soon the child began to lisp and they bent their heads to listen. "I am ... going ... out ... in ... the wind ... again," he said, "to find ... my ... mother." "Charlie!" cried Seth, in a voice whose anguish sounded high above the winds. "Stay! It is we who love you, Cyclona and I. Stay with us!"
And yet Cyclona was charming in those old gowns, blue and pink cotton in the summer and a heavy blue one for winter wear. Constantly in the open she possessed the beauty of perfect health. Her brown cheeks glowed like old gold from the pulsing of rich blood. An athletic poise of her shoulders and carriage of head added grace to her beauty.
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