It’s only three days since I wrote those last lines. But it seems a long time back to last Thursday. So many, many things have happened since then.

Friday morning broke very hot, and without a breath of wind. By noon it was stifling. By mid-afternoon I felt strangely tired, and even more strangely depressed. I even attempted to shake myself together, arguing that my condition was purely mental, for I had remembered that it was unmistakably Friday, a day of ill-omen to the superstitious.

I was surprised, between four and five, to see Whinstane Sandy come in from his work and busy himself about the stables. When I asked him the reason for this premature withdrawal he pointed toward a low and meek-looking bank of clouds just above the southwest sky-line and announced that we were going to have a “blow,” as he called it.

I was inclined to doubt this, for the sun was still shining, there was no trace of a breeze, and the sky straight over my head was a pellucid pale azure. But, when I came to notice it, there was an unusual, small stir among my chickens, the cattle were restless, and one would occasionally hold its nose high in the air and then indulge in a lowing sound. Even Bobs moved peevishly from place to place, plainly disturbed by more than the flies and the heat. I had a feeling, myself, of not being able to get enough air into my lungs, a depressed and disturbed feeling which was nothing more than the barometer of my body trying to tell me that the glass was falling, and falling forebodingly.

By this time I could see Whinnie’s cloud-bank rising higher above the horizon and becoming more ragged as it mushroomed into anvil-shaped turrets. Then a sigh or two of hot air, hotter even than the air about us, disturbed the quietness and made the level floor of my yellowing wheat undulate a little, like a breast that has taken a quiet breath or two. Then faint and far-off came a sound like the leisurely firing of big guns, becoming quicker and louder as the ragged arch of the storm crept over the sun and marched down on us with strange twistings and writhings and up-boilings of its tawny mane.

“Ye’d best be makin’ things ready!” Whinnie called out to me. But even before I had my windows down little eddies of dust were circling about the shack. Then came a long and sucking sigh of wind, followed by a hot calm too horrible to be endured, a hot calm from the stifling center of which your spirit cried out for whatever was destined to happen to happen at once. The next moment brought its answer to that foolish prayer, a whining and whistling of wind that shook our little shell of a house on its foundations, a lurid flash or two, and then the tumult of the storm itself.

The room where I stood with my children grew suddenly and uncannily dark. I could hear Struthers calling thinly from the kitchen door to Whinnie, who apparently was making a belated effort to get my chicken-run gate open and my fowls under cover. I could hear a scattering drive of big rain-drops on the roof, solemn and soft, like the fall of plump frogs. But by the time Whinnie was in through the kitchen door this had changed. It had changed into a passionate and pulsing beat of rain, whipped and lashed by the wind that shook the timbers about us. The air, however, was cooler by this time, and it was easier to breathe. So I found it hard to understand why Whinnie, as he stood in the half-light by one of the windows, should wear such a look of protest on his morose old face which was the color of a pigskin saddle just under the stirrup-flap.

Even when I heard one solitary thump on the roof over my head, as distinct as the thump of a hammer, I failed to understand what was worrying my hired man. Then, after a momentary pause in the rain, the thumps were repeated. They were repeated in a rattle which became a clatter and soon grew into one continuous stream of sound, like a thousand machine-guns all going off at once.

I realized then what it meant, what it was. It was hail. And it meant that we were being “hailed out.”

We were being cannonaded with shrapnel from the skies. We were being deluged with blocks of ice almost the size of duck-eggs. So thunderous was the noise that I had no remembrance when the window-panes on the west side of the house were broken. It wasn’t, in fact, until I beheld the wind and water blowing in through the broken sashes that I awakened to what had happened. But I did nothing to stop the flood. I merely sat there with my two babes in my arms and my Dinkie pressed in close between my knees, in a foolishly crouching and uncomfortable position, as though I wanted to shield their tender little bodies with my own. I remember seeing Struthers run gabbing and screaming about the room and then try to bury herself under her mattress, like the silly old she-ostrich she was, with her number sevens sticking out from under the bedding. I remember seeing Whinnie picking up one of the white things that had rolled in through the broken window. It was oblong, and about as big as a pullet’s egg, but more irregular in shape. It was clear on the outside but milky at the center, making me think of a half-cooked globe of tapioca. But it was a stone of solid ice. And thousands and thousands of stones like that, millions of them, were descending on my wheat, were thrashing down my half-ripened oats, were flailing the world and beating the life and beauty out of my crops.

The storm ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. The hammers of Thor that were trying to pound my lonely little prairie-house to pieces were withdrawn, the tumult stopped, and the light grew stronger. Whinstane Sandy even roused himself and moved toward the door, which he opened with the hand of a sleep-walker, and stood staring out. I could see reflected in that seamed old face the desolation which for a minute or two I didn’t have the heart to look upon. I knew, even before I got slowly up and followed him toward the door, that our crop was gone, that we had lost everything.

I stood in the doorway, staring out at what, only that morning, had been a world golden with promise, rich and bountiful and beautiful to the eye and blessed in the sight of God. And now, at one stroke, it was all wiped out. As far as the eye could see I beheld only flattened and shredded ruin. Every acre of my crop was gone. My year’s work had been for nothing, my blind planning, my petty scheming and contriving, my foolish little hopes and dreams, all, all were there, beaten down into the mud.

Yet, oddly enough, it did not stir in me any quick and angry passion of protest. It merely left me mute and stunned, staring at it with the eyes of the ox, with a dull wonder in my heart and a duller sense of deprivation away off at the back of my brain. I scarcely noticed when little Dinkie toddled out and possessed himself of a number of the larger hailstones, which he promptly proceeded to suck. When a smaller one melted in the warmth of his hand, he stared down at the emptiness between his little brown fingers, wondering where his pretty pebble had vanished to, just as I wondered where my crop had gone.

But it’s gone. There’s no doubt of that. The hail went from southwest to northeast, in a streak about three miles wide, like a conquering army, licking up everything as it went. Whinnie says that it’s the will of God. Struthers, resurrected from her mattress, proclaims that it’s Fate punishing us for our sins. My head tells me that it’s barometric laws, operating along their own ineluctable lines. But that doesn’t salve the sore.

For the rest of the afternoon we stood about like Italian peasants after an earthquake, possessed of a sort of collective mutism, doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. Even my seven dead pullets, which had been battered to death by the hail, were left to lie where they had fallen. I noticed a canvas carrier for a binder which Whinnie had been mending. It was riddled like a sieve. If this worried me, it worried me only vaguely. It wasn’t until I remembered that there would be no wheat for that binder to cut and no sheaves for that carrier to bear, that the extent of what had befallen Alabama Ranch once more came fully home to me. It takes time to digest such things, just as it takes time to reorganize your world. The McKails, for the second time, have been cleaned to the bones. We ought to be getting used to it, for it’s the second time we’ve gone bust in a year!

It wasn’t until yesterday morning that any kind of perspective came back to us. I went to bed the night before wondering about Dinky-Dunk and hoping against hope that he’d come galloping over to make sure his family were still in the land of the living. But he didn’t come. And before noon I learned that Casa Grande had not been touched by the hail. That at least was a relief, for it meant that Duncan was safe and sound.

In a way, yesterday, there was nothing to do, and yet there was a great deal to do. It reminded me of the righting up after a funeral. But I refused to think of anything beyond the immediate tasks in hand. I just did what had to be done, and went to bed again dog-tired. But I had nightmare, and woke up in the middle of the night crying for all I was worth. I seemed alone in an empty world, a world without meaning or mercy, and there in the blackness of the night when the tides of life run lowest, I lay with my hand pressed against my heart, with the feeling that there was nothing whatever left in existence to make it worth while. Then Pee-Wee stirred and whimpered, and when I lifted him into my bed and held him against my breast, the nearness of his body brought warmth and consolation to mine, and I remembered that I was still a mother....

It was this morning (Sunday) that Dinky-Dunk appeared at Alabama Ranch. I had looked for him and longed for him, in secret, and my heart should have leapt up with gladness at the sight of him. But it didn’t. It couldn’t. It was like asking a millstone to pirouette.

In the first place, everything seemed wrong. I had a cold in the head from the sudden drop in the temperature, and I was arrayed in that drab old gingham wrapper which Dinkie had cut holes in with Struthers’ scissors, for I hadn’t cared much that morning when I dressed whether I looked like a totem-pole or a Stoney squaw. And the dregs of what I’d been through during the last two days were still sour in the bottom of my heart. I was a Job in petticoats, a mutineer against man and God, a nihilist and an I. W. W. all in one. And Dinky-Dunk appeared in Lady Alicia’s car, in her car, carefully togged out in his Sunday best, with that strangely alien aspect which citified clothes can give to the rural toiler when he emerges from the costume of his kind.

But it wasn’t merely that he came arrayed in this outer shell of affluence and prosperity. It was more that there was a sense of triumph in his heart which he couldn’t possibly conceal. And I wasn’t slow to realize what it meant. I was a down-and-outer now, and at his mercy. He could have his way with me, without any promise of protest. And whatever he might have done, or might yet do, it was ordained that I in my meekness should bow to the yoke. All that I must remember was that he stood my lord and master. I had made my foolish little struggle to be mistress of my own destiny, and now that I had failed, and failed utterly, I must bend to whatever might be given to me.

“It’s hard luck, Chaddie,” he said, with a pretense at being sympathetic. But there was no real sorrow in his eye as he stood there surveying my devastated ranch.

“Nix on that King Cophetua stuff!” I curtly and vulgarly proclaimed.

“Just what do you mean?” he asked, studying my face.

“Kindly can the condescension stuff!” I repeated, taking a wayward satisfaction out of shocking him with the paraded vulgarity of my phrasing.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” he said, naturally surprised, I suppose, that I didn’t melt into his arms.

“Why not?” I inquired, noticing that he no longer cared to meet my eye.

“It sounds hard,” he said.

“Well, some man has said that a hard soil makes a hard race,” I retorted, with a glance about at my ruined wheatlands. “Did you have a pleasant time in Chicago?”

He looked up quickly.

“I wasn’t in Chicago,” he promptly protested.

“Then that woman lied, after all,” I remarked, with a lump of Scotch granite where my heart ought to have been. For I could see by his face that he knew, without hesitation, the woman I meant.

“Isn’t that an unnecessarily harsh word?” he asked, trying, of course, to shield her to the last. And if he had not exactly winced, he had done the next thing to it.

“What would you call it?” I countered. It wouldn’t have taken a microphone, I suppose, to discover the hostility in my tone. “And would it be going too far to inquire just where you were?” I continued as I saw he had no intention of answering my first question.

“I was at the Coast,” he said, compelling himself to meet my glance.

“I’m sorry that I cut your holiday short,” I told him.

“It was scarcely a holiday,” he remonstrated.

“What would you call it then?” I asked.

“It was purely a business trip,” he retorted.

There had, I remembered, been a great deal of that business during the past few months. And an ice-cold hand squeezed the last hope of hope out of my heart. She had been at the Coast.

“And this belated visit to your wife and children, I presume, is also for business purposes?” I inquired. But he was able to smile at that, for all my iciness.

“Is it belated?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you call it that?” I quietly inquired.

“But I had to clear up that case of the stolen horses,” he protested, “that Sing Lo thievery.”

“Which naturally comes before one’s family,” I ironically reminded him.

“But courts are courts, Chaddie,” he maintained, with a pretense of patience.

“And consideration is consideration,” I rather wearily amended.

“We can’t always do what we want to,” he next remarked, apparently intent on being genially axiomatic.

“Then to what must the humble family attribute this visit?” I inquired, despising that tone of mockery into which I had fallen yet seeming unable to drag myself out of its muck-bottom depths.

“To announce that I intend to return to them,” he asserted, though it didn’t seem an easy statement to make.

It rather took my breath away, for a moment. But Reason remained on her throne. It was too much like sticking spurs into a dead horse. There was too much that could not be forgotten. And I calmly reminded Dinky-Dunk that the lightest of heads can sometimes have the longest of memories.

“Then you don’t want me back?” he demanded, apparently embarrassed by my lack of hospitality.

“It all depends on what you mean by that word,” I answered, speaking as judicially as I was able. “If by coming back you mean coming back to this house, I suppose you have a legal right to do so. But if it means anything more, I’m afraid it can’t be done. You see, Dinky-Dunk, I’ve got rather used to single harness again, and I’ve learned to think and act for myself, and there’s a time when continued unfairness can kill the last little spark of friendliness in any woman’s heart. It’s not merely that I’m tired of it all. But I’m tired of being tired, if you know what that means. I don’t even know what I’m going to do. Just at present, in fact, I don’t want to think about it. But I’d much prefer being alone until I am able to straighten things out to my own satisfaction.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dinky-Dunk, looking so crestfallen that for a moment I in turn felt almost sorry for him.

“Isn’t it rather late for that?” I reminded him.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he admitted, with a disturbing new note of humility. Then he looked up at me, almost defiantly. “But you need my help.”

It was masterful man, once more asserting himself. It was a trivial misstep, but a fatal one. It betrayed, at a flash, his entire misjudgment of me, of my feelings, of what I was and what I intended to be.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather outlived that period of Bashi-Bazookism,” I coolly and quietly explained to my lord and master. “You may have the good luck to be confronting me when I seem to be floored. I’ve been hailed out, it’s true. But that has happened to other people, and they seem to have survived. And there are worse calamities, I find, than the loss of a crop.”

“Are you referring to anything that I have done?” asked Dinky-Dunk, with a slightly belligerent look in his eye.

“If the shoe fits, put it on,” I observed.

“But there are certain things I want to explain,” he tried to argue, with the look of a man confronted by an overdraft on his patience.

“Somebody has said that a friend,” I reminded him, “is a person to whom one need never explain. And any necessity for explanation, you see, removes us even from the realm of friendship.”

“But, hang it all, I’m your husband,” protested my obtuse and somewhat indignant interlocutor.

“We all have our misfortunes,” I found the heart, or rather the absence of heart, to remark.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a very good beginning,” said Dinky-Dunk, his dignity more ruffled than ever.

“It’s not a beginning at all,” I reminded him. “It’s more like an ending.”

That kept him silent for quite a long while.

“I suppose you despise me,” he finally remarked.

“It’s scarcely so active an emotion,” I tried to punish him by retorting.

“But I at least insist on explaining what took me to the Coast,” he contended.

“That is scarcely necessary,” I told him.

“Then you know?” he asked.

“I imagine the whole country-side does,” I observed.

He made a movement of mixed anger and protest.

“I went to Vancouver because the government had agreed to take over my Vancouver Island water-front for their new shipbuilding yards. If you’ve forgotten just what that means, I’d like to remind you that there’s——”

“I don’t happen to have forgotten,” I interrupted, wondering why news which at one time would have set me on fire could now leave me quite cold. “But what caused the government to change its mind?”

“Allie!” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, fixing a slightly combative eye on mine.

“She seems to have almost unlimited powers,” I observed as coolly as I could, making an effort to get my scattered thoughts into line again.

“On the contrary,” Dinky-Dunk explained with quite painful politeness, “it was merely the accident that she happened to know the naval officer on the Imperial Board. She was at Banff the week the board was there, and she was able to put in a good word for the Vancouver Island site. And the Imperial verdict swung our own government officials over.”

“You were lucky to have such an attractive wirepuller,” I frigidly announced.

“The luck wasn’t altogether on my side,” Dinky-Dunk almost as frigidly retorted, “when you remember that it was giving her a chance to get rid of a ranch she was tired of!”

I did my best to hide my surprise, but it wasn’t altogether a success. The dimensions of the movement, apparently, were much greater than my poor little brain had been able to grasp.

“Do you mean it’s going to let you take Casa Grande off her ladyship’s hands?” I diffidently inquired.

“That’s already arranged for,” Dinky-Dunk quite casually informed me. We were a couple of play-actors, I felt, each deep in a rÔle of his own, each stirred much deeper than he was ready to admit, and each a little afraid of the other.

“You are to be congratulated,” I told Dinky-Dunk, chilled in spite of myself, never for a moment quite able to forget the sinister shadow of Lady Alicia which lay across our trodden little path of everyday life.

“It was you and the kiddies I was thinking of,” said my husband, in a slightly remote voice. And the mockery of that statement, knowing what I knew, was too much for me.

“I’m sorry you didn’t think of us a little sooner,” I observed. And I had the bitter-sweet reward of seeing a stricken light creep up into Dinky-Dunk’s eyes.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

But I didn’t answer that question of his. Instead, I asked him another.

“Did you know that Lady Alicia came here and announced that she was in love with you?” I demanded, resolved to let the light in to that tangled mess which was fermenting in the silo of my soul.

“Yes, I know,” he quietly affirmed, as he hung his head. “She told me about it. And it was awful. It should never have happened. It made me ashamed even—even to face you!”

“That was natural,” I agreed, with my heart still steeled against him.

“It makes a fool of a man,” he protested, “a situation like that.”

“Then the right sort of man wouldn’t encourage it,” I reminded him, “wouldn’t even permit it.” And still again I caught that quick movement of impatience from him.

“What’s that sort of thing to a man of my age?” he demanded. “When you get to where I am you don’t find love looming so large on the horizon. What—”

“No, it clearly doesn’t loom so large,” I interrupted.

“What you want then,” went on Dinky-Dunk, ignoring me, “is power, success, the consolation of knowing you’re not a failure in life. That’s the big issue, and that’s the stake men play big for, and play hard for.”

It was, I remembered in my bitterness of soul, what I myself had been playing hard for—but I had lost. And it had left my heart dry. It had left my heart so dry that my own Dinky-Dunk, standing there before me in the open sunlight, seemed millions of miles removed from me, mysteriously depersonalized, as remote in spirit as a stranger from Mars come to converse about an inter-stellar telephone-system.

“Then you’ve really achieved your ambition,” I reminded my husband, as he stood studying a face which I tried to keep tranquil under his inspection.

“Oh, no,” he corrected, “only a small part of it.”

“What’s the rest?” I indifferently inquired, wondering why most of life’s victories, after all, were mere Pyrrhic victories.

“You,” declared Dinky-Dunk, with a reckless light in his eyes, “You, and the children, now that I’m in a position to give them what they want.”

“But are you?” I queried.

“Well, that’s what I’m coming back to demonstrate,” he found the courage to assert.

“To them?” I asked.

“To all of you!” he said with a valiant air of finality.

I told him it was useless, but he retorted that he didn’t propose to have that stop him. I explained to him that it would be embarrassing, but he parried that claim by protesting that sacrifice was good for the soul. I asserted that it would be a good deal of a theatricality, under the circumstances, but he attempted to brush this aside by stating that what he had endured for years might be repeated by patience.

So Dinky-Dunk is coming back to Alabama Ranch! It sounds momentous, and yet, I know in my heart, that it doesn’t mean so very much. He will sleep under the same roof with me as remote as though he were reposing a thousand miles away. He will breakfast and go forth to his work, and my thoughts will not be able to go with him. He will return with the day’s weariness in his bones, but a weariness which I can neither fathom nor explain in my own will keep my blood from warming at the sound of his voice through the door. Being still his wife, I shall have to sew and mend and cook for him. That is the penalty of prairie life; there is no escape from propinquity.

But that life can go on in this way, indefinitely, is unthinkable. What will happen, I don’t know. But there will have to be a change, somewhere. There will have to be a change, but I am too tired to worry over what it will be. I’m too tired even to think of it. That’s something which lies in the lap of Time.