“I think so, that is, we must make it keep us, and be very, very thankful that we have got it. Tom will sell all the horses except old Pucker, and then we can get Mr. Smith to plough for us, and so we shall get through. Oh, my dear Bertha, what a huge comfort you are to us! For Tom would never have been able to go if it had not been for you; but he says that he can trust us to you, and I would rather be left with you than with anyone,” said Grace, with a long sigh, which suggested, although it did not reveal, all the emotion which lay underneath the surface.
“What is it that Tom will have to do?” asked Bertha.
“There is some prospecting work to be done, just what for I cannot tell you. It is a private venture, and that, I suppose, is why the pay is so good,” said Grace. “There is a Mr. Brown, from Winnipeg, who has come over to arrange for a party of men to go. It seems that they want to start at once, only the difficulty was to find men in harvest. Then, when Mr. Brown was at Rownton, he heard of this district having been hailed out, and at once came on, guessing rightly that he would find men here who would be glad of employment. Eunice Long’s brother is going, and one or two more. It was very good of Eunice to send for Tom, as otherwise he might not have heard anything about it until it was too late.”
“What do you mean by at once?” asked Bertha, starting up in alarm, for she had done the family wash that morning, and Tom’s shirts were still on the line, as dry as bones, doubtless, but not ironed yet.
“The day after to-morrow,” replied Grace, with a swift intake of her breath, as if the near prospect of parting was more than she could bear.
“Never mind, the sooner he goes the sooner he will come back. And what a meeting that will be!” said Bertha cheerily.
Then she went out to the line and brought in the clothes, which she damped and folded in the pauses of getting supper ready. When the meal was over and the children had been put to bed, she sat darning by the light of a kerosene lamp. They did not allow themselves the luxury of a light at night at this time of the year in an ordinary way, but to-night Tom had gone back to Pentland Broads to let Mr. Brown know that he would be ready by the next day but one, and as there was a good deal to be done to get him ready, Bertha decided that she was justified in the lamplight, although she was so sleepy that she could hardly see to sew at all.
It was bright moonlight outside, a typical harvest night, only, alas! the harvest was destroyed, twisted, mangled, cut, and battered until it was no good at all—a ruin to weep over—and yet, bad as it was, it might have been worse, for the people were only impoverished and not destroyed, while out of the ashes of this year’s hopes western energy would most certainly kindle some light for the future. But meanwhile there was the parting to be faced, and the helpless woman on the couch looked out to-night at a prospect which to her was as bitter as death.
CHAPTER XVIII
Standing in the Breach
A week slipped away; the dreadful parting was over. Tom had gone, and the little household had settled down to make the best of the six months of solitude, narrow means, and general monotony.