THE STUFF OF DREAMS IN July the hay was maturing, and by the middle of August it was only a question of awaiting a few dry days to cut and-store it.

But after many weeks of fine weather the frequent shifts of wind which are usual in Quebec once more ruled the skies.
Every morning the men scanned the heavens and took counsel together.
"The wind is backing to the sou'east.

Bad luck! Beyond question it will rain again," said Edwige Legare with a gloomy face.

Or it was old Chapdelaine who followed the movement of the white clouds that rose above the tree-tops, sailed in glad procession across the clearing, and disappeared behind the dark spires on the other side.
"If the nor'west holds till to-morrow we shall begin," he announces.
But next day the wind had backed afresh, and the cheerful clouds of yesterday, now torn and shapeless, straggling in disorderly rout, seemed to be fleeing like the wreckage of a broken army.
Madame Chapdelaine foretold inevitable misfortune.

"Mark my words, we shall not have good hay-making weather.