Mrs. Sharp forbore any explanation for the moment. Sinking heavily into
the rocking chair, she accepted with a grateful nod the fan that Nora
offered her. There was nothing to do but to give her time to recover her
breath. Nora and Eddie sat down and waited.

"I was so anxious," Mrs. Sharp at length managed to say, still
panting--whether with exhaustion or emotion, Nora could not
tell--between her sentences, "I simply couldn't stay indoors--another
minute. I went out to see if I--could catch a sight of Sid. And I walked
on, and on. And then I saw the rig what's--outside. And it gave me such
a _turn_! I thought it was the inspector. I just had to come--I was that
nervous----!"

"But why? Is anything the matter?" asked Nora, completely puzzled.

"You're not going to tell me you don't _know_ about it? When Sid and
Frank haven't been talking about anything else since Frank found it?"

"Found it? Found what?"

"The weed," said Mrs. Sharp simply.

"You've got it then," said Marsh, with a slight gesture of his head
toward the table where Nora's flowers made a bright spot of color.

"It's worse here, at Taylor's. But we've got it, too."

"What does she mean?" Nora addressed herself to Eddie, abandoning all
hope of getting anything out of her friend.

"We can't make out who reported us. It isn't as if we had any enemies,"
went on Mrs. Sharp gloomily, as if Nora wasn't present, or at least
hadn't spoken. "It isn't as if we had any enemies," she repeated.
"Goodness knows we've never done anything to anybody."

"Oh, there's always someone to report you. After all, it's not to be
wondered at. No one's going to run the risk of letting it get on his own
land."

"And she has them in the house as if they were flowers!" exclaimed Mrs.
Sharp, addressing the ceiling.

"Eddie, I insist that you tell me what you two are talking about,"
demanded Nora hotly.

"My dear," said her brother, "these pretty little flowers which you've
picked to make your shack look bright and--and homelike, may mean ruin."

"Eddie!"

"You must have heard--why, I remember telling you about it myself--about
this mustard, this weed. We farmers in Canada have three enemies to
fight: frost, hail and weed."

Mrs. Sharp confirmed his words with a despairing nod of her head.

"We was hailed out last year," she said. "Lost our whole crop. Never got
a dollar for it. And now! If we lose it this year, too--why, we might
just as well quit and be done with