But already the storm was passing. Came a tail-end spatter of rain, and the sky began to clear. But as he wheeled his team out from shelter Angus' face was very grave, and a sudden thought struck his sister.
"Why," she exclaimed, her brown eyes opening wide, "do you suppose that hail struck the ranch?"
"I don't know," he replied, "but if it did, there won't be any threshing this year. It was bad."
As they drove on there was evidence of that. The grass was beaten flat, bushes were stripped of leaves. They passed the body of a young grouse which, caught in the open and confused, had been pelted to death. It was without doubt very bad hail.
When they came in sight of the ranch, Jean, unable to restrain her impatience, rose to her feet and, holding her brother's shoulder, took a long look. He felt her hand tighten, gripping him hard. Then she dropped back into the seat beside him.
"It—it hit us!" she said.
In a few moments Angus could see for himself. The fields of grain which, as they had driven away that morning, had rippled in the fresh wind, nodding full, heavy heads to the blue sky, were beaten flat. The heads themselves were threshed by the icy flail of the storm. He knew as he looked at the flattened ruin that there would be no threshing. He was "hailed out"!
Though the event assumed the proportions of a disaster, Angus said not a word. His black brows drew down and his mouth set hard. That was all. He felt Jean's arm go beneath his and press it.
"I'm sorry, old boy!" she said. "We needed the money, didn't we!"
"Yes," he replied.