"Raining," explains Providence. "They wanted rain--farmers, you
know, that sort of people."
"They won't want anything for long," retorts the Spirit. "They'll be
drowned in their beds before you've done with them."
"Don't say that!" says Providence.
"Well, have a look for yourself if you won't believe me," says the
Spirit. "You've spoilt that harvest again, you've ruined all the
fruit, and you are rotting even the turnips. Don't you ever learn by
experience?"
"It is so difficult," says Providence, "to regulate these things just
right."
"So it seems--for you," retorts the Spirit. "Anyhow, I should not
rain any more, if I were you. If you must, at least give them time
to build another ark." And the Wandering Spirit continues on his
way.
"The place does look a bit wet, now I come to notice it," says
Providence, peeping down over the edge of her star. "Better turn on
the fine weather, I suppose."
She starts with she calls "set fair," and feeling now that she is
something like a Providence, composes herself for a doze. She is
startled out of her sleep by the return of the Wandering Spirit.
"Been down there again?" she asks him pleasantly.
"Just come back," explains the Wandering Spirit.
"Pretty spot, isn't it?" says Providence. "Things nice and dry down
there now, aren't they?"
"You've hit it," he answers. "Dry is the word. The rivers are dried
up, the wells are dried up, the cattle are dying, the grass is all
withered.
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