was really a man, measured the field slowly with his
eye, calculating the damage before he answered slowly:

"Kicked it out o' th' pods flyin' through. Must 'a' been twenty acres.
What made you let it get s' ripe for? It ought t' been cut three days ago,
anyhow."

The girl was out of her saddle in an instant. She walked into the body of
the field somewhat, her face quivering pitifully as she examined the grain
for herself. It was only too true! The beautiful brown seeds carpeted the
earth around the roots of the flax, but no amount of harvesting would ever
gather so much as a handful. The crop was a total loss.

"Poor ma!" she cried, when convinced beyond a doubt of the empty bolls.
With the eyes of the prematurely old, she saw the extent of the ruin, and
she knew what would be its effect upon the mother who seldom knew joy.

The loss of the turnips had seemed bad enough, but while watching the
green things about her disappear it had not occurred to the child that the
grasshoppers would eat the dry and, as Luther had said, overripe stems of
the flax. Still less had it occurred to her that the insignificant wings
and feet of such small things could do damage to an entire field by merely
flying through it.

That flax was of paramount importance in the family calculations just now.
In her considerations of the prospective move to the East, the price of
this flax had figured largely. Family discussions had centred about that
field for weeks. It was the one definite starting point in the bickerings
about their weak and indefinite plans for the future. The loss of every
other family asset could not have undone the child's faith in the ultimate
good of things so overwhelmingly. She choked back a sob as she mounted her
horse again.

"Poor ma!" she repeated. "Pa told her she could have the money from the
flax to go and see grandma on. You know grandma's old, and they think she
can't live through the winter. That's one reason why I was so glad when I
thought we were going to have to go East to live. She don't hardly know
her own children any more, I hope ma don't know about the flax; She'll be
sure to have one of her spells, and she's just got over one. Ain't it
awful?"

Luther feared she was going to cry, and, man fashion, prepared to flee.

"I've got t' go, Lizzie," he said, and awkwardly held out his hand.

All thought of the flax disappeared from the girl's mind.

"Oh, Luther!" she exclaimed in new distress, "won't