to a steady pace, and the steel arm bearing the
shears swept a broad swath through the meadow, where the grass stood
shining after the rain.

The two strangers walked slowly in the rear, bending down now and again
to look at the stubble, and see if the shears cut clean. The tall man
with the heavy beard and pince-nez was the agent for John Fowler of
Leeds; the little clean-shaven one with the Jewish nose represented
Harrow & Co. of Philadelphia.

Now and again they called to Peer to stop, while they investigated some
part of the machine.

They asked him then to try it on different ground; on an uneven slope,
over little tussocks; and at last the agent for Fowler's would have it
that it should be tried on a patch of stony ground. But that would spoil
the shears? Very likely, but Fowler's would like to know exactly how the
shears were affected by stones on the ground.

At last the trials were over, and the visitors nodded thoughtfully to
each other. Evidently they had come on something new here. There were
possibilities in the thing that might drive most other types out of the
field, even in the intense competition that rages all round the world in
agricultural machinery.

Peer read the expression in their eyes--these cold-blooded specialists
had seen the vision; they had seen gold.

But all the same there was a hitch--a little hitch.

Dinner was over, the visitors had left, and Merle and Peer were alone.
She lifted her eyes to his inquiringly.

"It went off well then?" she asked.

"Yes. But there is just one little thing to put right."

"Still something to put right--after you have worked so hard all these
months?" She sat down, and her hands dropped into her lap.

"It's only a small detail," he said eagerly, pacing up and down. "When
the grass is wet, it sticks between the steel fingers above the shears
and accumulates there and gets in the way. It's the devil and all that
I never thought of testing it myself in wet weather. But once I've got
that right, my girl, the thing will be a world-success."

Once more the machine was set up in his workshop, and he walked around
it, watching, spying, thinking, racking his brain to find the little
device that should make all well. All else was finished, all was
right, but he still lacked the single happy thought, the flash of
inspiration--that given, a moment's work would be enough to give this
thing of steel life, and wings with which to fly out over the wide
worl