When Grahame and Jane had put in their first crop, fortune had favored them. A favorable season with steadily rising prices, enabled them to put up a good set of buildings and buy another quarter section, although purchasing the second, called for a mortgage on the first. A second good crop paid up a part of the mortgage on the land, bought additional stock and purchased the machinery they needed; and--then came the deluge. First certain impractical men then in power at the State capitol caused the golden stream of credit to be dammed--gold that had always flowed from the East to carry the farms from crop to crop. People in the East who had money to invest became frightened. They saw or thought they saw a great State crumbling to pieces in the hands of long-haired dreamers. Local banks, unable to borrow, could not lend; and worse yet, they had to collect. Next came the war, with prices which looked high and felt high, but still were below the cost of production. The Government thoughtfully put a price limit on wheat but allowed the price of machinery, twine and leather to climb as high as willing and able profiteers could push them. Lastly came years of drouth, until at the time when this story opens, Grahame had staked his last cent. One good crop would go far toward saving him. Another failure meant the loss of all he had. Day after day he moved up and down the field, and the black streak grew wider and wider. Sometimes he changed to the drill and seeded what he had plowed, and meanwhile there came the soft rains of early spring, soaking up the thirsty earth. In time the first land plowed became a long band of blue-green. When the wheat was in, he changed to oats and finally to a few acres of spelts for hog feed. June came, and half of it passed, leaving the fields shimmering in the heat of the noonday sun or waving in the cool breezes that followed the frequent showers. Grahame greased the moldboards of the plow to prevent rusting and then went fishing. He needed a few days of rest before haying began. One afternoon toward the end of June, Grahame, who had just finished cultivating the potatoes, was spraying them with Paris green. It had been an unusually hot day, without a breath of wind, and the air hung heavy and oppressive. Absorbed in his work, he noticed nothing unusual until there came a faint tremor of the air, a low, vibrant thing, half sound, half jar. Straightening up, he looked around to find the western horizon a tumbled mass of threatening clouds. There was a long fork of light, and again came the low murmur, although a little louder than before. * * * * *