he had helped her to the saddle.

"I'm afraid you have a good many difficulties to face," she said.

"Yes," assented George. "A dry summer is bad for wheat on my light
soil, and that is why I thought of going in for stock." He paused with
a rueful smile. "It doesn't promise to be a great improvement, if I'm
to have my best beasts shot."

She pointed to the west. The grass about them was still scorched with
fierce sunshine, but leaden cloud-masses, darkly rolled together with a
curious bluish gleam in them, covered part of the sky.

"This time it will rain," she said. "We will be fortunate if we get no
more than that. Try to remember, Mr. Lansing, that bad seasons are not
the rule in western Canada, and one good one wipes out the results of
several lean years."

Then she rode away, and George joined Edgar. He felt that he had been
given a warning. On reaching home, he harnessed a team and drove off
to a sloo to haul in hay, but while he worked he cast anxious glances
at the clouds. They rolled on above him in an endless procession,
opening out to emit a passing blaze of sunshine, and closing in again.
The horses were restless, he could hardly get them to stand; the
grasses stirred and rustled in a curious manner; and even the little
gophers that scurried away from the wagon wheels displayed an unusual
and feverish activity. Yet there was not a drop of rain, and the man
toiled on in savage impatience, wondering whether he must once more
resign himself to see the promised deluge pass away.