I imagine her walking those hundreds of miles behind the wagon, her mind wandering off leaving only her feet in crude leather shoes to continue on in the dust. The cotton of her simple blue dress was a stark contrast to the sage brocade bustle she donned in her daydreams. There, she could not see the rolling hills of Indiana. They were shut out by the brick and cobblestone filling the window of her New York flat.

The sound of her father’s voice directing the horses melted off into the chiming of the mantle clock as her pen scratched its last lines before a very important meeting with Mr. Bixby. Bixby himself was a funny character, an odd fellow she would weave into her stories one day although she knew it would drive him mad.

Every now and then as they continued to plod on, Charlie would scare up a grouse, and return bounding to her side. He was a nuisance, that dog, always under foot.