"The flour's not gone yet," Carrie rejoined. "We'll hold on while it lasts and it's going farther than you think. Somehow I don't feel as if we'd be beaten."
"We have come near it," said Jim, with rather grim humor. "One gets used to that, and resolution counts when you're fighting a snowslide or a flood; but we're up against another proposition now. It's so to speak, mathematical; nothing coming in and much going out! When we have no stores and money left we must quit."
"I suppose we must, but I'd hate to see you let the job go and would feel mean myself. After all, something may happen before we are forced to quit," Carrie replied, and added with calm confidence: "Something is going to happen."
"You have an optimism that can't be cured," Jim rejoined. "However, I don't know if I'd like it cured."
He knocked out his pipe and began to cut some tobacco, but stopped abruptly and looked up.
"What's that?" he asked as something pattered on the stiff foliage of a juniper.
"Big drops," said Carrie. "I felt a few before."
Jim got up. The light was going and it felt cool, but the sky up the valley was not clouded much; he could not see the other way. Then a few large cold drops fell on his upturned face and next moment there was a quick splashing on the dusty juniper. He drew a deep breath and shook off his languidness.
"It's coming; heavy rain!" he cried. "We'll make good, after all. But let's move the stores."
Carrie laughed happily. "You said I was too practical! Who's practical now? But sometimes you get things mixed; you reckoned not long since I was an optimist."