ng slumber that follows the slackening of severe mental and bodily
strain; he knew nothing of the banks of ragged ice-lumps that lay
melting to lee of the building.

It was very cold the next morning, though the sun was rising above the
edge of the scourged plain, when Edgar, partly dressed and wearing wet
boots and leggings, came into the room and looked down at George
compassionately.

The brown face struck him as looking worn; George had flung off part of
the coverings, and there was something that suggested limp relaxation
in his attitude; but Edgar knew that his comrade must bear his load
again.

"George," he said, touching him, "you had better get up."

The man stirred, and looking at him became at once intent as he saw his
face.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Something else gone wrong?"

Edgar nodded.

"I'm sorry," he answered simply. "Put on your things and come out.
You had better get it over with."

In three or four minutes George left the house. Holding himself
steadily in hand, he walked through the drenched grass toward the
wheat. On reaching it, he set his lips tight and stood very still.
The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks, half-buried
in a mass of rent and torn-up blades, covered the wide stretch of soil
where the wheat had been. The crop had been utterly wiped out by the
merciless hail. Edgar did not venture to speak; any sympathy he could
express would have looked like mockery; and for a while there was
strained silence. Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.

"Well," he said, "it has to be faced. After this, we'll try another
plan; more stock, for one thing." He paused and then resumed: "Tell
Grierson to hurry breakfast. I must drive in to the Butte; there's a
good deal to be done."

Edgar moved away, feeling relieved. George, instead of despairing, was
considering new measures. He was far from beaten yet.

CHAPTER XIII

SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT

It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined pensively in a
canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing's lawn with one or two opened letters
in her hand. Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly
cool in the shadow of the big copper beech. A neighboring border
glowed with autumn flowers: ribands of asters, spikes of crimson
gladiolus, ranks of dahlias. Across the lawn a Virginia creeper draped
the house with vivid tints. The scene had nothing of the grim bareness
of the western prai