The Treasure Hunt by Rebecca Martin Page A

on, but for now it’s between you and me. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t think you could keep a secret.”
    That did it. If he’d trusted her, it was her duty to guard the secret. But she still felt troubled about it.
    Joe’s mind was already busy with something else. “I’m going to ask Father if I’m old enough to use the shotgun on my own now. That way I could go off hunting for rabbits and pheasants and other small game. We need the meat, and I’d have an excuse to check on that den in the creek bank every now and then.” Joe didn’t tell Lydia that it would also give him an opportunity to pan for gold.
    With the crops looking so poor, Joe was more determined than ever to keep on panning. Yes, Father thinks we should make an honest living by farming; but what if that’s not possible this year? Surely nobody will despise a little gold if I find some.
    To Joe’s delight, Father gave him permission to use the shotgun. Now he had an excuse to hike along the creek. He kept his pan and shovel hidden behind a rock, and nearly every day he would pan for gold for a while. Afterward he’d wander in the woods trying to find small game. Rabbits had been plentiful in the spring, but they seemed scarce now. Maybe the dry weather had an effect on them too.

    Haying time put an end to Joe’s adventures for a while. “We have to make all the hay we can,” Father said. “If the crops fail, we’ll at least have hay for the horses and cattle.”
    â€œDo you really think the crops will fail?” Jake asked in dismay.
    Father smiled, but it was a grave smile. “If we don’t get rain soon—”
    It seemed you couldn’t talk with anyone for more than a few minutes without hearing something about the need for rain. People kept staring at the sky as if the rain would come if they stared long and hard enough.
    Sunny skies were excellent for hay making, though. Father and the boys got busy cutting the meadow grass the steam tractors had left standing last spring. Once cut, they raked it into windrows. In a matter of days, it was cured, ready to load onto the wagon, and haul to the barn. When the loft was full to bursting, they made haystacks beside the barn.
    Lydia was still busy carrying water, but now her job included taking water to the thirsty harvesters as well. It was amazing how much they needed to drink!
    It seemed to Lydia that every day she had to let the pail farther down into the well to draw water. The water level was getting lower and lower. “Dear God,” Lydia said as she lowered the bucket, “please don’t let the well go dry. Please let it rain. We need water so badly.”
    But no rain came. Big, scary cracks began to open in the sunbaked soil, and the wheat was shriveling up.
    â€œMother, why doesn’t God send rain?” Lydia asked one day.
    Mother kept on trickling water over the bean plants until her bucket was empty. “Are you praying for rain?”
    Lydia nodded shyly. “But I don’t get an answer.”
    Mother put down the bucket and gazed out at the parched fields. “It’s not wrong to pray for rain, Lydia, but we are not to pray like that without also saying, ‘Thy will be done,’ to God. We have no right to demand that He work a miracle for us. After all, it’s normal for this part of the country to have dry spells, and we knew it when we moved here.”
    â€œDo you wish we hadn’t moved here?”
    Mother shook her head. “I’m wishing nothing of the sort. I’m thinking we should start counting our blessings, Lydia.”
    â€œWhat blessings?”
    â€œOh, there are so many. We have our family. We have homes. And friends. And work to do. Of course, we can’t forget the greatest blessing of all—the love of God. To think He loved the world so much that He gave His Son Jesus to die for us.”
    Lydia took a deep breath.