“Perhaps the luck is turning,” his wife said, smiling.
John Weston sighed.
“It’s taken a long time to turn,” he said; “and there’s no sign yet. Half the district will be ruined if rain doesn’t come while there’s still warmth enough to bring on the grass. It’s over a year since we had a good rain. Do you know, I almost thought it was coming this morning: it was very cloudy, and there was a sort of feel of rain in the air. But it blew over, as it’s done hundreds of times.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was up at daylight, looking out for you: and I was almost hopeful. But my toe wasn’t aching!”
Her husband laughed.
“Your old toe!”
“But it always ached for rain, John!”
“Then it’s had such a long spell it must have forgotten to ache,” said he. “For which you should be thankful.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “It’s better to have my toe aching because of rain coming than the whole of me—mind and body—aching because rain doesn’t come. You’ll see me dancing with joy if my toe ever aches again.”
Mrs. Weston’s private barometer was a standing joke to her family. As a girl, her toe had been broken in an accident: and ever since, when rain was coming, it ached, more or less. Now, however, it had not manifested itself for over a year, and its queer warnings had been almost forgotten.