From the third week in May till the middle of July not a drop of rain fell upon the afflicted fields of Plymouth. The corn had been planted with fish, which for a time insured it moisture and helped it, but gradually the promising green growth drooped, wilted, browned, and on the drier plain, burned and died under the unshadowed sun. Constance saw her peas drying up, helpless to save them. She fell into the habit of sitting drooping like the grain, on the doorstep of the Leyden Street house, her bonnet pushed back, her chin in her hands, sorrowfully sharing the affliction of the soil. Elder Brewster, passing, found her thus, and stopped. "Not blithe Constantia like this?" he said. "Ah, yes, Mr. Brewster," said Constance, rising, "just like this. The drouth has parched my heart and dried up my courage. For nine weeks no rain, and our life hanging upon it! Oh, Elder Brewster, call for a day of fasting and prayer that we may be pitied by the Lord with the downfall of his merciful rain! Without it, without His intervention, starvation will be ours. But it needs not me to tell you this!" "My daughter, I will do as you say; indeed is it time, and I have been thinking so," replied the elder. "The day after to-morrow shall be set aside to implore Heaven's mercy on our brave plantation, which has borne and can offer the sacrifice of a long-suffering patience to supplement its prayers." The day of fast and prayer arose with the same metallic sky that had cloudlessly stretched over Plymouth for two months. Not a sign of mercy, nor of relenting was anywhere above them as the people of Plymouth, the less devout subdued to the same fearless eagerness to implore for mercy that the more devout ones felt, went silently along the dusty roads, heads bent beneath the scorching sun, without having tasted food, assembling in their meeting house to pray. In the rear of the bare little building stood the Indians who lived among the Englishmen, Squanto at their head, with folded arms watching and wondering what results should follow this appeal to the God of the white men, now to be tested for the first time in a great public way as to whether He was faithful to His promise, as these men said, and powerful to fulfil. All day long the prayer continued, with the coming and going of the people, taking turns to perform the necessary tasks of the small farms, and to continue in supplication. There had been no hotter day of all those so long trying these poor people, and no cloud appeared as the sun mounted and reached his height, then began to descend. Damaris took Constance's hand as they walked homeward, then dropped it. "It is too hot; it burns me," she said, fretfully. Constance raised her head and pushed back her hair with the backs of her burning hands. She folded her lips and snuffed the air, much as a fine dog stands to scent the birds. Constance was as sensitive to atmospheric conditions as a barometer. "Damaris, Damaris, rain!" she cried.