It was an oppressive evening, after a day of unusual heat.  Edgar sat smoking outside the homestead.  He had been busy since six o’clock that morning, and he felt tired and downcast.  Massed thunder-clouds brooded over the silent prairie, wheat and grass had faded to dingy green and lifeless gray, and Edgar tried to persuade himself that his moodiness was the effect of the weather.  This was partly the case, but he was also suffering from homesickness and a shrinking from what was new and strange.

The wooden house had a dreary, dilapidated look; the weathered, neglected appearance of barns and stables was depressing.  It was through a neighboring gap in the fence that Marston’s team had brought their lifeless master home; and Edgar had seen enough to realize that the man must have grown slack and nerveless before he had succumbed.  The farm had broken down Marston’s strength and courage, and now another man, less gifted in many ways, had taken it in charge.  Edgar wondered how he would succeed; but in spite of a few misgivings he had confidence in George.

After a while the latter, who had been examining Marston’s farming books, came out, looking grave; he had worn a serious air since their arrival.

“There’ll have to be a change,” he said.  “Dick’s accounts have given me something to think about.  I believe I’m beginning to understand now how his money went.”

“I suppose you haven’t got the new program cut and dried yet?” Edgar suggested.

George was seldom precipitate.

“No,” he answered.  “I’ve a few ideas in my mind.”

“Won’t you have some trouble about finances, if the alterations are extensive?”

“I’ll have to draw on my private account, unless Herbert will assist.”

“Herbert won’t do anything of the kind,” said Edgar decidedly.

George, making no answer, called Grierson from the stable.

“You’ll drive in to the settlement after breakfast to-morrow, Tom,” he said.  “Tell the man I’ll keep the team, if he’ll knock off twenty dollars, and he can have his check when he likes.  Then bring out the flour and groceries.”

“I suppose I won’t be going in again for a while; we’ll be too busy?”

“It’s very likely,” said Edgar, knowing his comrade’s temperament.

“Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?” asked Grierson diffidently.

“Why?” George questioned him.  “The Immigration people would see that you had some money before they let you in.”

“I’ve four pounds now; I want to send something home at once.”

“Ah!” said George.  “I see.  How much did you leave your wife?”

“About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough to pass me at Quebec.”

“Then if you give me what you have, I’ll let you have a check for twice as much on an English bank.  Better get your letter written.”

Grierson’s look was very expressive as he turned away with a word of thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.

“You have bought that fellow ­for an advance of four pounds,” he said.

George showed a little embarrassment.

“I was thinking of the woman,” he explained.

Then he pointed to the prairie.

“There’s a rig coming.  It looks like visitors.”

Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train, drew up his team and helped his daughter down.

“We were passing and thought we’d look in,” he said.  “Found out yesterday that you were located here.”

George called Grierson to take the team, and leading the new arrivals to the house, which was still in disorder, he found them seats in the kitchen.  It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished, and Edgar had decided that Sylvia had spent little of her time there.  After they had talked for a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a saffron-colored shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove, walked in, carrying a riding quirt.  Grant returned his greeting curtly, and then the man addressed George.

“I heard you were running this place,” he said.

“That’s correct.”

“Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow; Mrs. Marston told me to.  Thought I’d come along and let you have the bill.”

His manner was assertively offhand, and George did not ask him to sit down.

“It’s a very second-rate piece of work,” George said.  “You might have used the land-packer more than you did.”

“It’s good enough.  Anyway, I’ll trouble you for the money.”

Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement.  This overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.

“I think you had better take off your hat before we go any farther ­it’s customary.  Then you may tell me what I owe you.”

The man looked astonished, but he complied with the suggestion, and afterward stated his charge, which was unusually high.  Edgar noticed that Grant was watching George with quiet interest.

“I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston fixing the price?”

The other explained that the matter had been arranged verbally.

“Was anybody else present when you came to terms?” George asked.

“You can quit feeling, and pay up!” exclaimed the stranger.  “I’ve told you how much it is.”

“The trouble is that you’re asking nearly double the usual charge per acre.”

Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with a truculent air to the table at which George was sitting.

“I’ve done the work; that’s good enough for me.”

“You have done it badly, but I’ll give you a check now, based on the regular charge, which should come to” ­George made a quick calculation on a strip of paper and handed it to the man.  “This is merely because you seem in a hurry.  If you’re not satisfied, you can wait until I get an answer from Mrs. Marston; or I’ll ask some of my neighbors to arbitrate.”

The man hesitated, with anger in his face.

“I guess I’ll take the check,” he said sullenly.

Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper from a shelf.

“Sit here,” he said, when he came back, “and write me a receipt.”

The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed toward the door.

“That’s settled; I won’t keep you.”

The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly out; and Grant leaned back in his seat with a soft laugh.

“You fixed him,” he remarked.  “He has the name of being a tough.”

“I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered lawful prey.”

“A few of them deserve it,” Grant returned dryly.  “But let that go.  What do you think of the place?”

George felt that he could trust the farmer.  He had spent a depressing day, during which all he saw had discouraged him.  Marston had farmed in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings were in very bad repair; half the implements were useless; and it would be a long and costly task to put things straight.

“I feel that I’ll have my hands full.  In fact, I’m a little worried about it; there are so many changes that must be made.”

“Sure.  Where are you going to begin?”

“By getting as much summer fallowing as possible done on the second quarter-section.  The first has been growing wheat for some time; I’ll sew part of that with timothy.  There’s one bit of stiff land I might put in flax.  I’ve thought of trying corn for the silo.”

“Timothy and a silo?” commented Grant.

“You’re going in for stock, then?  It means laying out money, and a slow return.”

“I’m afraid so.  Still, you can’t grow cereals year after year on this light soil.  It’s a wasteful practise that will have to be abandoned, as people here seem to be discovering.  Grain won’t pay at sixteen bushels to the acre.”

“A sure thing,” Grant agreed.  “I’m sticking right to wheat, but that’s because I’m too old to change my system, and I’m on black soil, which holds out longer.”

“But you’re taking the nature out of it.”

“It will see me through if I fallow,” said Grant.  “When I’ve done with it and sell out, somebody else can experiment with mixed crops and stock-raising.  That’s going to become the general plan, but it’s costly at the beginning.”  Then he rose.  “I’ll walk round the place with you.”

They went out, and the girl fell behind with Edgar.  He had learned that her name was Flora.

“Mr. Lansing seems to understand farming,” she remarked.  “He didn’t tell us he had been on the prairie before.”

“He hasn’t told you now,” Edgar pointed out.

“George never does tell things about himself unless there’s a reason.”

“He soon got rid of the fellow who sowed the crop.”

Edgar laughed.

“I knew the man would meet with a surprise.  George’s abilities are not, as a rule, obvious at first sight.  People find them out by accident, and then they’re somewhat startled.”

“You’re evidently an admirer of his.  Do you mean to go in for farming?”

“I am, though I wouldn’t have him suspect it,” said Edgar.  “In answer to the other question, I haven’t made up my mind.  Farming as it’s carried on in this country seems to be a rather arduous occupation.  In the meanwhile, I’m undergoing what English people seem to think of as the Canadian cure; that is, I’ve been given a chance for readjusting my ideas and developing my character.”

“Under Mr. Lansing’s guidance?”

Edgar realized that the girl was less interested in him than in George, but he did not resent this.

“You’re smart.  I believe my people entertained some idea of that nature; George is considered safe.  Still, to prevent any misapprehension, I’d better point out that my chief failings are a fondness for looking at the amusing side of things and a slackness in availing myself of my opportunities.  As an instance of the latter defect, I’m boring you by talking about Lansing.”

Flora regarded him with a quiet smile.

“It struck me that you were saying something about yourself.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Edgar admitted.  “It clears the ground.”

“For what?”

“For an extension of our acquaintance, among other things.”

“Do you want it extended?”

They had stopped at the edge of a hollow filled with tall, harsh grass, and Edgar studied her while he considered his answer.  There was nothing that suggested coquetry in the faint amusement she displayed; this was a girl with some depth of character, though he realized that she was pretty.  She carried herself well; she was finely and strongly made; her gray eyes were searching; and she had a rather commanding manner.  Her hair was a warm brown, clustering low on a smooth forehead; nose and lips and chin were firmly molded.

“Yes,” he answered candidly; “I’m feeling the strangeness of the country, and I’ve an idea that both George and I may need friends in it.  It strikes me that you and your father would prove useful ones.”

“Well,” she said, “he’s sometimes called hard, and he’s a little prejudiced on certain points, but he can be very staunch to those he takes a liking to.”

“I believe,” Edgar rejoined, “that also applies to you; I don’t mean the first of it.”

Flora changed the subject.

“I gather that you’re not favorably impressed with the place.”

“I’m not.  If I had to farm it, I’d feel scared; and I don’t think George is happy.  It’s hard to understand how Marston let it get into such a state.”

“He was unfitted for the work, and he was further handicapped.”

“How?” Edgar asked.

“You may have noticed that while economy ruled outside, the house is remarkably well furnished.  The money Marston spent in Winnipeg stores should have gone into the land.”

Edgar nodded; he did not agree with George’s opinion of Sylvia.

“You don’t seem to approve of the way Mrs. Marston managed things.  It’s rather curious.  I always thought her pretty capable in some respects.”

“That’s very possible,” said Flora with a hint of dryness.

“After all, it may not have been her fault,” Edgar suggested.  “Marston was a generous fellow; he may have insisted on thinking first of her comfort.”

“Then she ought to have stopped him,” said Flora firmly.  “Do you think a woman should let a man spoil his one chance of success in order to surround her with luxury?”

“The answer’s obvious.”

A dazzling flash of lightning leaped from the mass of somber cloud overhead, and they turned back toward the house, which George and Grant reached soon afterward.  Grant said that he must get home before the storm broke, and Grierson brought out his spirited team.  It had grown nearly dark; a curious leaden haze obscured the prairie; and when the man was getting into his light, spring-seated wagon, a jagged streak of lightning suddenly reft the gloom and there was a deafening roll of thunder.  The horses started.  Grant fell backward from the step, dropping the reins; and while the others stood dazzled by the flash, the terrified animals backed the vehicle with a crash against the stable.  Then they plunged madly forward toward the fence, with the reins trailing along the ground.  Flora had got in before her father, and she was now helpless.

It was too late when Grant got up; Grierson and Edgar were too far away, and the latter stood still, wondering with a thrill of horror what the end would be; he did not think the horses saw the thin wire fence, and the gap in it was narrow.  If they struck a post in going through, the vehicle would overturn.  Then George, running furiously, sprang at the horses’ heads, and went down, still holding on.  He was dragged along a few yards, but the pace slackened, and Edgar ran forward with Grierson behind him.  For a few moments there was a savage struggle, but they stopped and held the team, until Grant coolly cleared the reins and flung them to his daughter.

“Stick tight while I get up, and then watch out,” he said to the others.

He was seated in another moment, the girl quietly making room for him; then, to Edgar’s astonishment, he lashed the frantic horses with the whip, and, plunging forward, they swept madly through the opening in the fence, with the wagon jolting from rut to rut.  A minute or two afterward they had vanished into the thick obscurity that veiled the waste of grass, and there was a dazzling flash and a stunning roll of thunder.  George, flushed and breathless, looked around with a soft laugh.

“Grant has pretty good nerve,” he said.

“That’s so, sir,” Grierson agreed.  “Strikes me he’ll take some of the wickedness out of his team before he gets them home.  I noticed that Miss Grant didn’t look the least bit afraid.”

Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where Edgar sat smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant had said about Sylvia had a disturbing effect on him.  It looked as if her selfish regard for her comfort had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar had never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful to contemplate.  Moreover, George cherished a steadfast regard for her, which complicated things; but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned.  After all, Miss Grant might be mistaken.