"It sounds plausible," she admitted. "In a way, perhaps, you're right; but——"
"I know. There's much that's fine and graceful in the customs of the past. But you can't preserve them without some adaptation. We're a new nation working in the melting pot. All the scum and dross comes to the top and makes an ugly mess, but the frothing up clarifies the rest. By and by the product will be run out, hard, true metal."
"You're an optimist."
Harding laughed.
"I'm talking at random; it's a weakness of mine."
Beatrice sat silent a moment, looking out over the stretch of brown furrows.
"Do you intend to continue the breaking to where your partner is at work?" she asked, putting her thoughts into words.
"I'm going farther back. You can see our guide-poles on the top of the last ridge."
"But isn't it rash to sow so much, unless you have a reserve to carry you over a bad harvest? Suppose the summer's dry or we get autumn frost?"
"Then," said Harding grimly, "there'll be a disastrous smash. I've no reserve: I'm plowing under every cent I have—staking all upon the chances of the weather."