The tender green of the early summer deepened and ripened into the
golden tinge of autumn as over the Black Creek Valley the mantle of
harvest was spread.

Only a small portion of the valley was under cultivation, for the
oldest settler had been in only for three years; but it seemed as if
every grain sowed had fallen upon good soil and gave promise of the
hundredfold.

Across John Corbett's ten acres of wheat and forty acres of oats the
wind ran waves of shadow all day long, and the pride of the land-owner
thrilled Maggie Corbett's heart over and over again.

Not that the lady of the Stopping-House took the time to stand around
and enjoy the sensation, for the busy time was coming on and many
travellers were moving about and must be fed. But while she scraped the
new potatoes with lightning speed, or shelled the green peas, all of
her own garden, her thoughts were full of that peace and reverent
gratitude that comes to those who plant the seed and see it grow.

It was a glittering day in early August; a light shower the night
before had washed the valley clean of dust, and now the hot harvest sun
poured down his ripening rays over the pulsating earth. To the south
the Brandon Hills shimmered in a pale gray mirage. Over the trees which
sheltered the Stopping-House a flock of black crows circled in the blue
air, croaking and complaining that the harvest was going to be late. On
the wire-fence that circled the haystack sat a row of red-winged
blackbirds like a string of jet beads, patiently waiting for the oats
to ripen and indulging in low-spoken but pleasant gossip about all the