"Try me, Elcot," she begged. "I know I'm fond of ease and luxury—perhaps it's because I had so little of them before I married you, but now you must give me nothing for the next twelve months. Cut the household expenses down by half and send everybody but one maid away."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be prepared for something of the kind," replied Hunter quietly. "In the meanwhile, I'll take the boys and the binders over to Thorne's place in the morning."

He moved away toward his ruined crop without another word, but Florence did not resent the attitude he had adopted. Indeed, his uncompromising directness had appealed to her in his favor. When, soon after their marriage, she had by various means made it plain that he was expected to keep his distance and leave her largely to her own devices it had been a relief that he had fallen in with her views without protest, though it had been evident that it had grievously hurt him. Then his forbearance and apparent content with the situation had by degrees grown galling, and now, when at last he seemed inclined to assert himself, she was not displeased. It had, as she had admitted to Alison, begun to dawn on her that she had somehow never recognized her husband's good qualities, and that there were unexpected possibilities in the simple farmer. Besides this, she was seized with a fit of wholly genuine penitence.

In the meanwhile Hunter climbed into the seat of a binder which he drove slowly through the tangled grain, and Florence, still lingering on the veranda, noticed the carefulness with which he and his men stooked the sheaves of wheat which might never be sold. The rows of black shadows behind them lengthened rapidly, until at last they coalesced and the stubble lay dim, while the western face of the grain along which the binders crept alone glowed with a coppery radiance as the red sun dipped. Then a wonderful exhilarating coolness crept into the air, and there was a stillness not apparent earlier through which the clash and clatter of the machines rang harshly distinct. They moved on with the bent figures which grew dimmer toiling behind them for another half-hour, and then while the others trooped off to the stables Hunter walked slowly toward the house. Florence noticed the suggestive slackness of his bearing and her heart smote her, for she knew it was not mere physical weariness which had crushed the vigor out of the man. When he came up the steps she turned to him.

"Is the wheat looking no better?"

"No," answered Hunter simply; "It's looking worse. I'm going in to write a letter—to the bank."

He strode on and disappeared into the house, but Florence, who presently saw a light stream out from one of the windows, sat still, though the dew was getting heavy and it was chilly now.

CHAPTER XXVII
A HELPING HAND

Lucy Calvert came over as often as she was able; but at length she was compelled to discontinue her visits to Thorne. Soon after she had done so, there was a welcome change in the almost torrid weather, and grass and grain lay still under a faintly clouded sky when he toiled among the sheaves one clear, cool afternoon. The binder which flung them out moved along the edge of the oats in front of him, and another man was busy among the crackling stubble a pace or two behind, for a neighbor had driven across to help him on the previous evening, and the station-agent had at last sent him out a man from the railroad settlement. They had been at work since early morning, but each time Thorne glanced at the oblong of standing grain he realized more clearly the futility of what he was doing.