He ran his fingers uneasily through his hair and spat in the ashes.

"Don't fret?
When there's not a bit to eat in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and when--merciful God!--every year sees things worse than they were before." "It's only fancy," Mother went on.

"And you've been brooding and brooding till it seems far worse than it really is." "It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of wheat that did n't come up fancy?
Is it only fancy that we've lost nearly every beast in the paddock?
Was the drought itself a fancy?
No--no." And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire.
Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for another trial of it--just one more.

She had wonderful faith in the selection, had Mother.

She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and raked the fire together and covered it with ashes--we always covered the fire over before going to bed so as to keep it alight.