Far across at the upper end she could dimly see in the growing light a huge gap in the fence—two, three posts were entirely gone. It had taken many head of cattle, driven in and harried, to work that havoc. It was complete.
For a long, long time Nance Allison stood and looked at it. Then with a sigh that seemed the embodiment of all weariness, she turned away and went slowly back to the cabin.
At the open door she met Bud and pushed him back with both hands. Her mother was at the stove, lifting a lid.
At sight of her daughter’s face she held it in mid-air.
“Hold hard, girl,” she said quietly, “what’s up?”
Nance leaned against the door-jamb. Every fibre of her body longed to crumple down, to let go, to relax in defeat, but she would not have it so.
Instead she looked at these two, so greatly dependent upon her, and faced the issue squarely.
“It’s the cornfield,” she said with difficulty, “it’s gone.”
“What?”
“Gone? Gone—how?”