The end of that harvest-time came as a surprise to Kurt.  Obsessed with his own emotions, he had actually helped to cut the wheat and harvest it; he had seen it go swath by swath, he had watched the huge wagons lumber away and the huge straw-stacks rise without realizing that the hours of this wonderful harvest were numbered.

Sight of Olsen coming in from across the field, and the sudden cessation of roar and action, made Kurt aware of the end.  It seemed a calamity.  But Olsen was smiling through his dust-caked face.  About him were relaxation, an air of finality, and a subtle pride.

“We’re through,” he said.  “She tallies thirty-eight thousand, seven hundred an’ forty-one bushels.  It’s too bad the old man couldn’t live to hear that.”

Olsen gripped Kurt’s hand and wrung it.

“Boy, I reckon you ought to take that a little cheerfuller,” he went on.  “But—­well it’s been a hard time....  The men are leavin’ now.  In two hours the last wagons will unload at the railroad.  The wheat will all be in the warehouse.  An’ our worry’s ended.”

“I—­I hope so,” responded Kurt.  He seemed overcome with the passionate longing to show his gratitude to Olsen.  But the words would not flow.  “I—­I don’t know how to thank you....  All my life—­”

“We beat the I.W.W.,” interposed the farmer, heartily.  “An’ now what’ll you do, Dorn?”

“Why, I’ll hustle to Kilo, get my money, send you a check for yourself and men, pay off the debt to Anderson, and then—­”

But Kurt did not conclude his speech.  His last words were thought-provoking.

“It’s turned out well,” said Olsen, with satisfaction, and, shaking hands again with Kurt, he strode back to his horses.

At last the wide, sloping field was bare, except for the huge straw-stacks.  A bright procession lumbered down the road, led by the long strings of wagons filled with brown bags.  A strange silence had settled down over the farm.  The wheat was gone.  That waving stretch of gold had fallen to the thresher and the grain had been hauled away.  The neighbors had gone, leaving Kurt rich in bushels of wheat, and richer for the hearty farewells and the grips of horny hands.  Kurt’s heart was full.

* * * * *

It was evening.  Kurt had finished his supper.  Already he had packed a few things to take with him on the morrow.  He went out to the front of the house.  Stars were blinking.  There was a low hum of insects from the fields.  He missed the soft silken rustle of the wheat.  And now it seemed he could sit there in the quiet darkness, in that spot which had been made sweet by Lenore Anderson’s presence, and think of her, the meeting soon to come.  The feeling abiding with him then must have been happiness, because he was not used to it.  Without deserving anything, he had asked a great deal of fate, and, lo! it had been given him.  All was well that ended well.  He realized now the terrible depths of despair into which he had allowed himself to be plunged.  He had been weak, wrong, selfish.  There was something that guided events.