It was a question of serious import. A night's heavy rain would
consolidate the soil that blew about with every breeze, revive the
suffering wheat and strengthen its abraded stalks against any further
attack by the driving sand. Indeed, he thought it would place the crop
in security.

He came home for supper, jaded, dusty, and morose, and found that he
could scarcely eat when he sat down to the meal. He could not rest
when it was over, though he was aching from heavy toil; nor could he
fix his attention on any new task; and when dusk was getting near he
strolled up and down before the homestead with Edgar. There was a
change in the looks of the buildings--all that could be done had been
effected--but there was also a change in the man. He was leaner, his
face was getting thin, and he looked worn; but he maintained a forced
tranquillity.

The sky was barred with cloud now; the great breadth of grain had faded
to a leaden hue, the prairie to shadowy gray. The wind had dropped,
the air was tense and still; a strange, impressive silence brooded over
everything.

Presently Edgar looked up at the clouds.

"They must break at last," he said. "One can't help thinking of what
they hold--endless carloads of grain, wads of dollar bills for the
storekeepers, prosperity for three big provinces. It's much the same
weather right along to the Rockies."

"I wasn't considering the three provinces," said George.