pected Claude to help dig the "sump," and it proved
quite hard work. So did the pounding of the "hard pan" on the alkali
tract, itself. The tough, hard clods of earth were so difficult to
pulverize that they had to be pounded with crowbars and axes.

"I used to think that helping pick lemons, at home, was work,"
Claude thought to-day, as he went toward the part of the ranch where
he was expected to work, "but I didn't know about alkali patches,
then. And--I had mother."

The tears would come into his eyes.

The hired men were scattered over the extensive alkali tract, and
were pounding the clods. Claude chose to work near a man called
Neil. The boy liked Neil better than the other men, because he did
not speak crossly.

Claude sorrowfully pounded the alkali clods. How tiresome the work
was, and how uncomfortably warm the sun! The boy worked dejectedly.
After a while, pausing to take breath, he looked up and found Neil
also pausing.

"We are tired," said Neil, with a friendly smile.

"Don't you hate this work?" exclaimed Claude vehemently. "I wouldn't
touch it, if Cousin Harriet didn't make me."

The hired man looked kindly at the small, tired boy.

"It is not most pleasant," he returned, "but what I think of makes
me glad while I work."

"What do you think of?" asked Claude, giving an alkali clod a push.

"I was thinking," answered Neil gently, "how once I had a hard
heart--very hard. It was like these clods, where nothing good can
grow. People who looked at me could see that my heart was hard. Men
would have said, 'Neil's heart can never be different' But Jesus
took away my hard heart and gave me a new one. That is what makes me
glad all the time, though I work on these hard alkali clods. Some
day this patch we work on will be different. There will be
beautiful, green, growing crops on it. But that is not so great a
change as it is to change a hard heart and get a new heart from our
Savior."

Claude did not say anything. He bent over the hard clods and worked
silently, but he was not thinking of his work. He was remembering
his mother's voice as it had sounded nights when she had knelt
beside his bed and prayed that her boy might become a Christian.
There had been one night that Claude would always remember, when his
mother had come for the last time to his bedside, and prayed feebly
for her boy. The next week she had died.

Claude looked up at Neil, now. The man evidently found the work
hard, but his