abored trot. For
a few minutes they struggled against the gale, and then the roar Festing
had heard behind the scream drowned the rumbling thunder. He threw up
his arm to guard his face as the terrible hail of the plains drove down
the blast.

It fell in oblique lines of ragged lumps of ice, hammering upon the
wagon and bringing the horses to a stop. They began to plunge, turning
half round, while one pressed against the other, in an effort to escape
the savage buffeting. Festing let them have their way at the risk of
upsetting the rig, and presently they stopped with their backs to the
wind. He let the reins fall, and the hail beat upon his bowed head and
shoulders like a shower of stones. The horses stood limp and trembling,
as powerless as himself.

Their punishment did not last long. The hail got thinner and the lumps
smaller; the roar diminished and Festing heard it recede across the
plain. The wind was still savage, but it was falling, and the thunder
sounded farther off. There was a savage downpour of drenching rain, and
when this moderated he pulled himself together, and turning the horses,
resumed his journey. He was wet to the skin, his shoulders were sore,
and his face and hands were bruised and cut. Pieces of ice, some as
large as hazelnuts, lay about the wagon, and the wild barley lay flat
beside the trail. Not a blade of grass stood upright as far as he could
see, and the ruts in which the wheels churned were full of melting hail
and water.

It was getting dark when his homestead rose out of the plain; a shadowy
group of buildings, marked by two or three twinkling lights. He was wet
and cold, but he stopped by the wheat and nerved himself to see what
had happened to the crop. He had not had much hope, but for all that
got something of a shock. There was no standing grain; the great field
looked as if it had been mown. Bruised stalks and torn blades lay flat
in a tattered, tangled mass, splashed with sticky mud. The rain that
might have saved him had come too late and was finishing the ruin the
sand and hail had made.

Then the downpour thickened and the light died out, and he drove to the
house. He could see in the morning if any remnant of the crop could be
cut, but there would not be enough to make much difference. Hope had
gone, and his face was stern when he called the hired man and got down
stiffly from the dripping rig.

CHAPTER XVIII

HELEN MAKES A MISTAKE

When Festing had changed his