“Rain,” says Providence, “they are wanting rain. What did I do with that rain?”
She finds the rain and starts it, and is pleased with herself until some Wandering Spirit pauses on his way and asks her sarcastically what she thinks she’s doing.
“Raining,” explains Providence. “They wanted rain—farmers, you know, that sort of people.”
“They won’t want anything for long,” retorts the Spirit. “They’ll be drowned in their beds before you’ve done with them.”
“Don’t say that!” says Providence.
“Well, have a look for yourself if you won’t believe me,” says the Spirit. “You’ve spoilt that harvest again, you’ve ruined all the fruit, and you are rotting even the turnips. Don’t you ever learn by experience?”
“It is so difficult,” says Providence, “to regulate these things just right.”
“So it seems—for you,” retorts the Spirit. “Anyhow, I should not rain any more, if I were you. If you must, at least give them time to build another ark.” And the Wandering Spirit continues on his way.
“The place does look a bit wet, now I come to notice it,” says Providence, peeping down over the edge of her star. “Better turn on the fine weather, I suppose.”
She starts with she calls “set fair,” and feeling now that she is something like a Providence, composes herself for a doze. She is startled out of her sleep by the return of the Wandering Spirit.