But if the waters are freed, then the land shall flourish. That which was withered and laid low shall again stand on high; the seed is shed in fertile ground, and the earth no longer lies parched and dry; and children play by the door-steps.

The land lies tense, awaiting water and release. If only the rain come, then shall all be whole.

2

“Well, Jen, Jen! I thought I heard a car, and I came right out.”

The sisters fell into each other’s arms, and kissed.

“And this is Max Arnim, I guess. (Jen never thinks of introducing anyone.) Was it a nice drive down from Reno?”

“Yes, fine, thanks. Where’ll I put Jen’s suitcase?”

“Right here in the hall. Won’t you come in for a while?”

“Oh, no, thanks. It’s after midnight. I’ve got to get to my friend’s.”

When he had gone, Jen had to tell her married sister everything about him; only, as she said, there wasn’t anything to tell—that is, anything. Dot watched her; the little sister, she decided, was mostly chubby and wholesome-looking, but rather pretty too, especially with the copper glint in her light brown hair.

3

Standing on some miraculous point of lookout, possessing more than human vision, the Chief saw clearly the far reach of the Bay. Blue and quiet it lay in the sunshine. On its surface, with breeze just enough to fill their sails, moved hundreds of pleasure craft—yawls and ketches, star-boats, and snipe-boats, little home-made pumpkin-seeds. Then suddenly a great black cloud arose, covering all the southeastern sky, and the little boats turned for shore. But the storm struck, and they were overwhelmed. The bodies washed ashore where women stood screaming. Then upon the Chief fell a sense of unutterable shame and guilt, for he remembered that he had seen that great storm dominating all the map, and yet in some moment of incredible blindness he had forecast fair weather and on his word all those pretty craft had sailed out upon the Bay. And always, he knew—as he felt himself sinking into the pit of madness—that he would carry with him the horror of that sight and of the screaming.

He awoke writhing, the pulse drumming in his ears. “Same old nightmare,” he thought, and wondered whether other forecasters had the same dream. He lay tense and shaken; his heart still raced. At such moments he always decided that he must resign, that he could no longer carry such responsibility of life and death. He felt bitter—at ships which failed to report, at ships with faulty barometers, at the vast spaces of ocean with no ships at all, at scanty appropriations, at the public which failed to realize the difficulties under which the Weather Bureau worked.