hould say so," retorted Kurt. "We'll harvest and haul that grain to
the railroad in just three days."

"Impossible!" ejaculated Dorn.

"You'll see," declared Kurt. "You'll see who's managing this harvest."

He could not restrain his little outburst of pride. For the moment the
great overhanging sense of calamity that for long had haunted him faded
into the background. It did seem sure that they would save this splendid
yield of wheat. How much that meant to Kurt--in freedom from debt, in
natural love of the fruition of harvest, in the loyalty to his
government! He realized how strange and strong was the need in him to
prove he was American to the very core of his heart. He did not yet
understand that incentive, but he felt it.

After eating dinner Kurt took his rifle and went out to relieve Jerry.

"Only a few more days and nights!" he exclaimed to his foreman. "Then
we'll have all the harvesters in the country right in our wheat."

"Wal, a hell of a lot can happen before then," declared Jerry,
pessimistically.

Kurt was brought back to realities rather suddenly. But questioning
Jerry did not elicit any new or immediate cause for worry. Jerry
appeared tired out.

"You go get some sleep," said Kurt.

"All right. Bill's been dividin' this night watch with me. I reckon
he'll be out when he wakes up," replied Jerry, and trudged away.

Kurt shouldered his rifle and slowly walked along the road with a
strange sense that he was already doing army duty in protecting property
which was at once his own and his country's.

The night was dark, cool, and quiet. The heavens were starry bright. A
faint breeze brought the tiny crackling of the wheat. From far distant
came the bay of a hound. The road stretched away pale and yellow into
the gloom. In the silence and loneliness and darkness, in all around
him, and far across the dry, whispering fields, there was an invisible
presence that had its affinity in him, hovered over him shadowless and
immense, and waved in the bursting wheat. It was life. He felt the wheat
ripening. He felt it in reawakened tenderness for his old father and in
the stir of memory of Lenore Anderson. The past active and important
hours had left little room for thought of her.

But now she came back to him, a spirit in keeping with his steps, a
shadow under the stars, a picture of sweet, wonderful young womanhood.
His whole relation of thought toward her had undergone some marvelous
change. The most