"That's so, sir," Grierson agreed. "Strikes me he'll take some of the
wickedness out of his team before he gets them home. I noticed that
Miss Grant didn't look the least bit afraid."

Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where Edgar sat
smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant had said about Sylvia had a
disturbing effect on him. It looked as if her selfish regard for her
comfort had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar had
never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful to contemplate.
Moreover, George cherished a steadfast regard for her, which
complicated things; but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a
delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned. After all,
Miss Grant might be mistaken.




CHAPTER VII

A CATTLE DRIVE

George was summer fallowing, sitting in the iron saddle of a plow which
a heavy Clydesdale team hauled through the stubble. The work should
have been done earlier, for the soil on the Marston farm was very
light, and, as it had already grown several crops of cereals, George
was anxious to expose it to the influence of sun and wind as soon as
possible. It was about the middle of the afternoon and very hot.
Rounded cloud-masses overhung the plain, but dazzling sunshine fell on
grass and stubble, and a haze of dust surrounded the team, while now
and then the fine soil and sand, blown from the rest of the fallow by