“Oh, well, we’ll have it,” Rosemary soothed, as she would have comforted a child.  “I just know March will come in like a roaring lion!  Have some beans.  They’re different, to-night.  I cooked them with plain salt pork instead of bacon.  You can’t imagine what a difference it makes!”

Luck was on the point of snapping out something that would have hurt her feelings.  He did not want baby-soothing.  It did not comfort him in the least to have her assure him that it would snow, when he knew she had absolutely no foundation for such an assurance.  But just before he spoke, he remembered how bravely she had been smiling at hardships that would have broken the spirit of most women, so he took the beans and smiled at her, and did not speak at all.

Trouble, that month, was riding Luck hard.  The blizzard that was absolutely vital to his picture-plot seemed as remote as in June.  Other storms had come to delay his work without giving him the benefit of any spectacular effect.  There had been days of whooping wind, when even the saddle strings popped in the air like whiplashes, and he could not “shoot” interior scenes because he could not shelter his stage from the wind, and everything blew about in a most maddening manner to one who is trying, for instance, to portray the calmness of a ranch-house kitchen at supper time.

There had been days of lowering clouds which brought nothing but exasperating little flurries of what Applehead called “spit snow,”—­flurries that passed before Luck could get ready for a scene.  There had been one terrific sand storm which had nearly caught them in the open.  But Applehead had warned them, and Luck, fortunately for them all, had heeded the warning.  They had reached shelter just before the full force of the storm had struck them, and for six hours the air was a hell of sand in violent flight through the air.  For six hours they could not see as far as the stable, and the rooms were filled with an impalpable haze of dust which filtered through minute crevices under the roof and around the doors and windows.

Luck, when that storm broke, was worried over his negative drying in the garret, until he had hurried up the ladder to see what might be done.  He had found the film practically dry, and had carried it down in much relief to his dark room which, being light-proof, was also practically dust-proof.

There had been other vexations, but there had been fine, clear days as well.  Luck had used those fine days to their full capacity for yielding him picture-light.  Could he have been certain of getting his “blizzard stuff” now, he would have left but his one load of financial worry.  That was a heavy one, but he felt he could carry it with a better grace if only he could be sure that his picture would be completed in time.

“Pass the beans, Luck,” Pink broke into his abstraction.  “Seems like I’ve had beans before, this week, but I’ll try them another whirl, anyway.”