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Updated: June 7, 2025
Then a blow from a great unseen hand out of the darkness struck them both, felling them. During the next few minutes of inky blackness, of indescribable terror, of flying missiles armed with death, Cyclona lay unconscious. When she opened her eyes a calm light of the evenness of twilight had spread over the track of the cyclone, and her head lay pillowed on Hugh Walsingham's shoulder.
Cyclona took up her abode at the dugout now, nursing him tirelessly, while Seth walked the floor, back and forth, back and forth like some caged and helpless animal writhing in pain; for from the first he had read death in the face of the child.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cyclona. "I know now. The foundation was of stone made ready before they were brought hither, costly stones, great stones. It must have a foundation of some sort," she argued, keeping her finger on the place as she looked up, "or it will blow away." "Of co'se," assented Seth, "or it will blow away.
"Just Cyclona. I ain't got no other name." Seth smiled back at her, she seemed so timidly wild, like those little prairie dogs that stand on their haunches and bark, and yet are ever mindful of the safety of their near-by lairs, waiting for them in case of molestation. "Wheah did you come frum?" he queried. "Two or three hundred miles from here," she answered, "where we had a claim."
There came also the memory of the wind as it soughed around the dugout on those lonely nights, when he and Cyclona had planned the beautiful house for Celia. In a flash of light he seemed to see Cyclona. With this rose by his side, he had gone sighing after the roses of memory.
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.
"Come down last week," said Cyclona, adding lightly by way of explanation, "we blew down. Father and his wife and me. Never had no mother. A cyclone blew her away. That's why they call me Cyclona." She drew her sleeve across her eyes. "It's mighty lonesome in these parts," she sighed, "without no neighbors. Neighbors was nearer where we came from." "What made you move, then?" Seth queried.
Cyclona arose and walked over to a bit of glass that hung on the wall. She frowned at the reflection of her brown cheek there. A tender and delicate rose underlay the brown, but her eyes saw no beauty in it. She sighed as she came back and once more sat down. "I shall have the beautiful house agleam with lights," went on Seth, who had failed to notice the interruption.
Now and again Cyclona grew a trifle impatient of this beautiful creature whose character she knew, whose child she had cared for and helped to bury, grew a trifle tired of hearing hymns sung in her praise. "Where is she now?" she asked listlessly, knowing full well, merely to continue if the talk pleased him, tired as she was.
Then, when carpenter, painter, wood-carver and decorator had departed, and the house stood in the sunshine, a gem of a house, surpassing, if possible, in beauty, the house of Seth's imaginings, he came to Cyclona for the last time in a dream. He stood in the dimness of a low-roofed room, looking out of a window. His face was inexpressibly sad.
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