ision they saw the same cruel picture: the
shriveling orange-trees, the blighted harvest of figs dropping withered
from the trees, the flume dry and useless, the horse-trough empty and
warping in the sun,--all the barren hopelessness of a mountain claim
without water, familiar to both. And through it all Melissa felt rather
than imagined the bitterness of her mother's wrath. Perhaps it was this
latter rather than the real catastrophe that whitened the poor young
face, turned toward Lysander in helpless dismay.

"Danged if I don't hate the job o' tellin' yer maw," said the man at
last, raking the dry boulders with his hoe aimlessly,--"danged if I
don't. I can't figger out who's done it, but one thing's certain,--it
beats the devil."

Lysander made the last statement soberly, as if this vindication of his
Satanic majesty were a simple act of justice. Seeming to consider the
phenomenon explained by a free confession of his own ignorance, he
ceased his investigation, and sat down on the edge of the ditch
hopelessly.

"Don't le' 's tell mother right away, Sandy. Paw's fell asleep, an'
he'll think you turned the water off. Mebbe if we wait it'll begin to
run again." The hopefulness of youth crept into Melissa's quivering
voice.

Lysander shook his head dismally.

"I'm willin' enough to hold off, M'lissy, but I hain't got much hope.
There ain't any Moses around here developin' water, that I know of. The
meracle business seems to have got into the wrong hands this time;
danged if it hain't. It gets away with me how Forrester can dry up a
spring at long range that-a-way; there ain't a track in the mud around
here bigger 'n a linnet's,--not a track. It's pure deviltry, you can bet
on that." Lysander fell back on the devil with restful inconsistency,
and fanned himself with his straw hat, curled by much similar usage into
fantastic shapelessness.

"I don't believe he done it," said Melissa, obstinately charitable. "I
don't believe anybody done it. I believe it just happened. I don't think
folks like them care about folks like us at all, or want to pester us. I
believe they just play on things and sing,"--the color mounted to her
face, until the freckles were drowned in the red flood,--"an' laugh, an'
talk, an' act pullite, an' that's all. I don't believe Colonel Forrester
hates mother like she thinks he does at all. I think he just don't
care!"

It was the longest speech Melissa had ever made. Her listener seemed a
trifl