“So it seems—for you,” retorts the Spirit. “Anyhow, I should not rain any more, if I were you. If you must, at least give them time to build another ark.” And the Wandering Spirit continues on his way. “The place does look a bit wet, now I come to notice it,” says Providence, peeping down over the edge of her star. “Better turn on the fine weather, I suppose.” She starts with she calls “set fair,” and feeling now that she is something like a Providence, composes herself for a doze. She is startled out of her sleep by the return of the Wandering Spirit. “Been down there again?” she asks him pleasantly. “Just come back,” explains the Wandering Spirit. “Pretty spot, isn’t it?” says Providence. “Things nice and dry down there now, aren’t they?” “You’ve hit it,” he answers. “Dry is the word. The rivers are dried up, the wells are dried up, the cattle are dying, the grass is all withered. As for the harvest, there won’t be any harvest for the next two years! Oh, yes, things are dry enough.” One imagines Providence bursting into tears. “But you suggested yourself a little fine weather.” “I know I did,” answers the Spirit. “I didn’t suggest a six months’ drought with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty in the shade. Doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got any sense at all.” “I do wish this job had been given to someone else,” says Providence. “Yes, and you are not the only one to wish it,” retorts the Spirit unfeelingly. “I do my best,” urges Providence, wiping her eyes with her wings. “I am not fitted for it.” “A truer word you never uttered,” retorts the Spirit. “I try—nobody could try harder,” wails Providence. “Everything I do seems to be wrong.” “What you want,” says the Spirit, “is less enthusiasm and a little commonsense in place of it. You get excited, and then you lose your head. When you do send rain, ten to one you send it when it isn’t wanted. You keep back your sunshine—just as a duffer at whist keeps back his trumps—until it is no good, and then you deal it out all at once.” “I’ll try again,” said Providence. “I’ll try quite hard this time.” “You’ve been trying again,” retorts the Spirit unsympathetically, “ever since I have known you. It is not that you do not try. It is that you have not got the hang of things. Why don’t you get yourself an almanack?” The Wandering Spirit takes his leave. Providence tells herself she really must get that almanack. She ties a knot in her handkerchief. It is not her fault: she was made like it. She forgets altogether for what reason she tied that knot. Thinks it was to remind her to send frosts in May, or Scotch mists in August. She is not sure which, so sends both. The farmer has ceased even to be angry with her—recognises that affliction and sorrow are good for his immortal soul, and pursues his way in calmness to the Bankruptcy Court.