d years, but you have to stake high if you want to get much of
it out. One needs costly labour, teams--no end of them--breakers, and
big gang-plough. The farmer who has nerve enough drills his last
dollar into the soil in spring, but if he means to succeed it costs him
more than that. He must give the sweat of his tensest effort, the
uttermost toil of his body--all, in fact, that has been given him.
Then he must shut his eyes tight to the hazards against him, or, and we
can't all do that, look at them without wavering--the drought, the
hail, the harvest frost. If his teams fall sick, or the season goes
against him, he must work double tides. Still, it now and then happens
that things go right, and the red wheat rolls ripe right back across
the prairie. I don't know that any man could want a keener thrill than
the one you feel when you drive the binders in!"

Agatha had imagination, and she could realise something of the toil,
the hazard, and the clean thrill of that victory.

"You have felt it often?" she said.

"Twice we helped to fill a big elevator up," said Wyllard quietly.
"Still, I've been very near defeat."

The girl looked at him thoughtfully. It seemed that he possessed the
power of acquisition, as well as a wide generosity that came into play
when by strenuous effort success had been attained, which, so far as
her experience went, were things that did not invariably accompany each
other.

"And when the harvest comes up to your expectations, you give your
dollars away," she said.

Wyllard laughed. "You shouldn't deduce too much from a single
instance. Besides, that Pole's case hasn't cost me anything yet."

Mrs. Hastings joined them soon afterwards, and when Wyllard strolled
away they spent some time leaning on the rails, and looking at the
groups of shadowy figures on the forward deck. Their attitude was
dejected and melancholy, but one cluster had gathered round a man who
stood upon the hatch.

"Yes," he said, "you'll have no trouble. Canada's a great country for
a poor man. He can sleep beneath a bush all summer, if he can't strike
anything he likes."

This did not appear particularly encouraging, but the orator went on.
"Been over for a trip to the Old Country, and I'm glad I'm going back
again. Went out with nothing except a good discharge, and they made me
sergeant of Canadian militia: After that armourer to a rifle club.
There's places a blame long way behind the Dominion, and I s