“John, I’ve thought of something.”
She saw his face then. It was gray and haggard, but she shook his arm again.
“John, that field is as clean as summer fallowing. Why not put it into flax and try once more?”
For a while Grahame revolved the idea in his head and then dismissed it with: “Too late.”
“No, it isn’t. I know it isn’t too late. Lots of people put flax in the last of June and win out. If we happened to have plenty of rain and no early frost, we might make it too. It’s worth trying, anyway.”
For a moment Grahame toyed with the thought. He raised his head and looked out over the field. Certainly there never was a finer seed-bed than that looked. Flax sowed then would have a flying start of the weeds even if the weeds started again, because it would germinate and grow faster than any of them. With plenty of moisture it stood a good chance to get ahead of the fall frosts. Gradually his face cleared, and he too looked out upon the world with an expression of new hope. He straightened and started to say something, but the words died in his throat. He bowed his head again.
“No money, no credit!” he groaned.
“Oh, John, don’t say it. You have credit.”
“There isn’t a thing left on the place I could put up for security, and who’d be fool enough to lend me money for seedflax so late in the season? No—no use! We’re beaten, and that’s the end of it.”
For a while Jane returned to her study of the ice-swept field, but she did not show the discouragement of her husband. Instead the light of a strong resolution grew in her eyes, and soon he felt her hand on his arm again.