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them.
    Weariness! Weariness!
    Summer is fiendish and life is a curse, I said in my heart.
    Day after day the drought continued. Now and again there would be a few days of the raging wind before mentioned, which carried the dry grass off the paddocks and piled it against the fences, darkened the air with dust, and seemed to promise rain, but ever it dispersed whence it came, taking with it the few clouds it had gathered up; and for weeks and weeks at a stretch, from horizon to horizon, was never a speck to mar the cruel, dazzling brilliance of the metal sky.
    Weariness! Weariness!
    I said the one thing many times but, ah, it was a weary thing which took much repetition that familiarity might wear away a little of its bitterness!

CHAPTER SIX
Revolt
    In spite of our pottering and lifting, with the exception of five, all our cows eventually died; and even these and a couple of horses had as much as they could do to live on the whole of the thousand acres which, without reserve, were at their disposal. They had hardly any grass—it was merely the warmth and water which kept them alive. Needless to say, we were on our beam ends financially. However, with a little help from more fortunate relatives, and with the money obtained from the sale of the cowhides and Mother’s poultry, we managed to pay the interest on the money borrowed from the bishop, and keep bread in our mouths.
    Unfortunately for us, at this time the bishop’s agent proved a scoundrel and absconded. My father held receipts to show that to this agent he had regularly paid the interest of the money borrowed; but through some finicking point of law, because we had not money to contend with him, his lordship the bishop now refused to acknowledge his agent and one-time pillar of the cathedral, and, having law on his side, served a writ on us. In the face of our misfortunes this was too much: We begged for time, which plea he answered by putting in the bailiff and selling everything we possessed. Our five cows, two horses, our milk separator, plow, cart, dray, buggy, even our cooking utensils, books, pictures, furniture, Father’s watch—our very beds, pillows, and blankets. Not a thing besides what we stood up in was left us, and this was money for the payment of which my father held receipts.
    But for the generosity of our relatives we would have been in a pretty plight. They sent us sufficient means to buy everything,and our neighbors came to our rescue with enthusiasm and warm-hearted, genuine sympathy. The bailiff—a gentleman to the core—seeing how matters stood, helped us to the utmost of his power.
    Our goods were disposed of on the premises, and the neighbors arranged a mock sale, at which the bailiff winked. Our friends had sent the money, and the neighbors did the bidding—none bidding against each other—and thus our belongings went for a mere trifle. Every cloud has its silver lining, and the black cloud of poverty has a very bright silver lining.
    In poverty you can get at the real heart of people as you can never do if rich. People are your friends from pure friendship and love, not from sponging self-interestedness. It is worth being poor once or twice in a lifetime just to experience the blessing and heartrestfulness of a little genuine reality in the way of love and friendship. Not that it is impossible for opulence to have genuine friends, but rich people, I fear, must ever have at their heart the cankering suspicion to hint that the friendship and love lavished upon them is merely self-interestedness and sham, the implements of trade used by the fawning toadies who swarm around wealth.
    In conjunction with the bishop’s name, the approaching sale of our goods had been duly advertised in the local papers, and my father received several letters of sympathy from the clergy, deploring the conduct of the bishop. These letters were from men unknown to Father, who were unaware that Richard Melvyn was being sold off for