At last, worn out by work and worry, Jane went to bed, but just as she was losing consciousness, an idea came to her. If it didn’t snow during the night, she would go to the nearest rig and offer them half the crop if they would come in and thresh it, at once. She woke Grahame, and they discussed it, pro and con, finally deciding there was no other course open to them. Meanwhile the night wind sang its melancholy way around the house, and once the feeble light from the night lamp showed them a single snowflake melting against the windowpane. Sometime later Jane heard John’s voice calling to her; and awakening, she saw him propped up on his elbow and straining his eyes out into the darkness. As she moved slightly, he cautioned her: “Listen!” From somewhere out of the night came a low rumbling sound that rose and fell, accompanied by a steady _throb-throb_ as though some monster were breathing fast and deep; far up the road they could see a slender streamer of sparks drifting with the wind. Minutes passed. The rumbling became louder, and now they could hear the clatter of heavy gears running loose, on the downhill grade. Suddenly they saw, illuminated by the sparks, three plumes of steam climb into the air, and came the wild, high shriek of a steam whistle, once, twice, thrice. “Good God,” exclaimed Grahame, “it’s a threshing outfit calling for water.” There could be no doubt whatever. It was a threshing rig coming down the road that passed their house. Could it be possible that someone was coming to help them? The thought came to Grahame and Jane at the same time, but it seemed too wildly impossible to mention. They could see plainly now, for the engine was almost abreast of the house, and behind it came the great bulk of a separator, lumbering along with its gaunt arms outlined against the sky, while still farther back was the low squat body of the cook-car, followed by an extra water tank and then a long line of horses and racks stretching away into the gloom. When the engine was almost to the gate, Grahame reached out and grasped his wife’s hand. In a moment they would know, and they dared not breathe. The front of the boiler was even with the gate. It was passing. Then when their last wild hope seemed about to be dashed to the ground, the engine swung in a wide turn and came straight toward them. The house seemed to tremble on its foundation, and the exhaust echoed shrilly from the empty hayloft. Now the big machine was passing beneath their window. The fire door clanged; a lurid glow lit up the engine’s platform; and Jane caught a momentary glimpse of the man at the throttle: it was Ironheart the thankless. * * * * *