wer, and clean a pasture of weeds in a day. He could cultivate and
handle the manure spreader. In the hot, blazing sun, he could shock
wheat behind Martin, who sat on the binder and cut the beautiful swaying
gold. There wasn't a thing he could not do, but there was not one that
he did with a willing heart. His dreams were all of escape from this
grinding, harsh farm. It seemed to him that it was as ruthless as his
father; that everything it demanded of him was, at best, just a little
beyond his strength. If there was a lever to be pulled on the disk, very
likely it was rusted and refused to give unless he yanked until he was
short of breath and his heart beat fast; four horses were so unruly and
hard to keep in place; the gates were all so heavy--they were not easy
to lift and then drag open. It was such a bitter struggle every step of
the way. It was so hard to plow as deeply as he was commanded. It was so
wearing to make the seed bed smooth enough to measure up to his father's
standard. Never was there a person who saw less to love about a farm
than this son of Martin's. He even ceased to take any interest in the
little colts.

"You used to be foolish about them," Martin taunted, "cried whenever I
broke one."

"If I don't get to liking 'em, I don't care what happens to em," Bill
answered with his father's own laconicism.

This chicken-heartedness, as he dubbed it, disgusted Martin, who
consequently took a satisfaction in compelling the boy to assist him
actively whenever there were cattle to be dehorned, wire rings to be
pushed through bunches of pigs' snouts, calves to be delivered by
force, young stuff to be castrated or butchering to be done. Often
the sensitive lad's nerves were strained to the breaking point by the
inhuman torture he was constantly forced to inflict upon creatures that
had learned to trust him. There was a period when it seemed to him every
hour brought new horrors; with each one, his determination strengthened
to free himself as soon as possible from this life that was one round of
toil and brutality.

Rose gave him all the sympathy and help her great heart knew. His
rebellion had been her own, but she had allowed it to be ground out of
her, with her soul now in complete surrender. And here was her boy going
through it all over again, for himself, learning the dull religion of
toil from one of its most fanatical priests. What if Bill, too, should
finally have acquiescence to Martin rubbed in