the majestic presence of Death. Just before the sand was filled in,
Ellen Cavers, tearless still, kissed the roses she held in her hand
and dropped them gently on the coffin.

One by one the neighbours walked away, untied their horses, and drove
slowly down the hill, until Libby Anne and her mother were left
alone. Bud and Martha were waiting at the gate for them. Mrs. Cavers,
looking up, noticed that one man stood with bowed head near the gate.
It was Sandy Braden, his face white and full of sadness.

Mrs. Cavers walked over to where he stood and held out her hand. "Mr.
Braden," she said, looking at him with a glimmer of tears in her
gentle eyes.

He took her hand, so cruelly seamed and workworn; his was white and
plump and well-kept. He tried to speak, but no words came.

Looking up she read his face with a woman's quick understanding. "I
know," she said.

CHAPTER XXI

FROZEN WHEAT

For them 'at's here in airliest infant stages,
It's a hard world;
For them 'at gets the knocks of boyhood's ages,
It's a mean world;
For them 'at nothin's good enough they're gittin',
It's a bad world;
For them 'at learns at last what's right and fittin',
It's a good world.

_----James Whitcomb Riley._

THE summer was over, and the harvest, a great, bountiful harvest, was
gathered in. The industrious hum of the threshing-machine was heard
from many quarters, and the roads were dotted thick with teams
bringing in the grain to the elevators.

In the quiet field on the hillside, where the spruce trees, straight
and stiff, stand like faithful sentinels, the grass that had grown
over Bill Cavers's grave was now sere and gray; only the hardy
pansies were green still and gay with blossoms, mute emblems of the
love that never faileth.

Mrs. Cavers and Libby Anne were still living on the rented farm.
After Bill's death the neighbours, with true Western generosity, had
agreed among themselves to harvest the crop for her. The season had
been so favourable that her share of the crop would be a considerable
amount.

It was a typical autumn day in middle September. The golden and
purple flowers of the fall bespangled the roadside--wild sunflowers,
brown-centred gaillardia, wild sage, and goldenrod. The bright blue
of the cloudless sky set off the rich tints of autumn. The stubble
fields still bore the golden-yellow tinge of the harvest, and
although the maple leaves were fast disappearing before the