The broad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards.
Like an Indian hut, it had one floor.

Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as the hand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate.

This little dwelling-place was just outside the village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearest irrigation ditch.

As Jane Withersteen entered the unfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward her with curls flying.

This child was a little girl of four called Fay.