it commenced to snow. The white flakes fell on the sleeping form of Jethro Trent. Slowly bit by bit the coverlet of white spun itself about his body. When he awakened he was nearly covered by the snow. Wearily he rose to his feet and gazed about him. It was night. A lonesome crescent moon lifted slantwise into the sky. The snow had ceased to fall. The clouds were scurrying off into the distant shadows. Gradually the night grew very clear and the cold moon reflecting on the frozen snow made a picture that was breath-taking in its simple beauty. The air was cold but not extremely so. Although Jethro felt stiff and tired he had not suffered to any measurable extent from exposure. As ever the soil had been kind to him. The momentary fit of anger had departed. He was wrong to blame the soil for a condition for which it was in no way responsible. Whatever the future might bring he must remain true to the soil. It was his only hope of salvation. Perhaps there was a chance for his boy. Somehow his vision might be
restored. It is well that tomorrow is always
