“I suppose we shall,” his wife said, slowly. Then she was silent; and all through the evening she said little, looking before her with brooding eyes. Her husband watched her anxiously. When the children had gone to bed, he spoke.
“Is anything wrong, Mary?”
“No,” she said—“there’s nothing wrong. But I want you to do something for me, John. I don’t want it put into the Bank—that money of Mr. Ahearne’s.”
“Not put into the Bank!” he said. “But why, Mary? What else do you want to do with it?”
“I want you to buy Murphy’s sheep,” she said.
“Murphy’s sheep!” He looked at her with amazed eyes. “But, Mary—it’s an utter gamble!”
“There’s a month’s grass with them yet. I met Tim Conlan on Saturday, and he told me they were not sold, and that Murphy would take even less for them. And, John—nothing but a gamble will put us on our feet now, even if the drought does break.”
“I know,” he said heavily: “I know. And of course, if it breaks, sheep will go up like sky-rockets—every one will be wanting to buy. But—look at it!” He swept his hand vaguely towards the hot darkness, seeing, as plainly as in daylight, the bare, scorched land. “How do we know it will break this year!”
Mrs. Weston looked at him, and a little whimsical smile came at the corners of her mouth.
“My toe is aching,” she said. “It has ached for three days!”