rtnight had slipped by since the evening Hawtrey had spent with
Sally, when Winifred and Sproatly once more arrived at the Hastings
homestead. The girl was looking jaded, and it appeared that the manager
of the elevator, who had all along treated her with a great deal of
consideration, had insisted upon her going away for a few days when the
pressure of business which had followed the harvest had slackened.
Sproatly, as usual, had driven her in from the settlement.

When the evening meal was finished they drew their chairs close up about
the stove, and Hastings thrust fresh birch billets into it, for there
was a bitter frost. Mrs. Hastings installed Winifred in a canvas lounge
and wrapped a shawl about her.

"You haven't got warm yet, and you're looking quite worn out," she said.
"I suppose Hamilton has still been keeping you at work until late at
night?"

"We have been very busy since I was last here," Winifred admitted, and
then turned to Hastings. "Until the last week or so there has been no
slackening in the rush to sell. Everybody seems to have been throwing
wheat on to the market."

Hastings looked thoughtful. "A good many of the smaller men have been
doing so, but I think they're foolish. They're only helping to break
down prices, and I shouldn't wonder if one or two of the big,
long-headed buyers saw their opportunity in the temporary panic. In
fact, if I'd a pile of money lying in the bank I'm not sure that I
wouldn't send along a buying order and operate for a rise."

Mrs. Hastings shook her head at him. "No," she said; "you certainly
wouldn't while I had any say in the matter. You're rather a good farmer,
but I haven't met one yet who made a successful speculator. Some of our
friends have tried it--and you know where it landed them. I expect those
broker and mortgage men must lick their lips when a nice fat woolly
farmer comes along. It must be quite delightful to shear him."

Hastings laughed. "I should like to point out that most of the farmers
in this country are decidedly thin, and have uncommonly little wool on
them." Then he turned to the others. "I feel inclined to tell you how
Mrs. Hastings made the expenses of her Paris trip; it's an example of
feminine consistency. She went around the neighborhood and bought up all
the wheat anybody had left on hand, or, at least, she made me do it."

Mrs. Hastings, who had means of her own, nodded. "That was different,"
she declared; "anyway, I had the wheat