th it little peace. As one sat at the fireside in the gathering
dusk, it was only to see in imagination a sinister procession of specters
file past. They were the things that had been left undone. On they swept,
one unperformed task treading upon the heel of its predecessor. There
still remained potatoes to spade, weeds to pull, corn to hoe. A menacing
company of ghosts to harass a weary man as his eyes closed at night and
confront him when he opened them in the morning!

And even when, with the zest the new day brought, he contrived to mow down
the vanguard of the parade, other recruits were constantly reenforcing its
rear ranks and swelling the foes arraigned against the baffled farmer.
Struggle as he would, the line was sometimes longer at evening than it had
been at dawn. What wonder that a conscientious fellow like Martin Howe
felt farming less a business to be accomplished than a choice of
alternatives? What rest was there in sleep, if all the time one's eyes
were closed a man was subconsciously aware that cutworms were devouring
his lettuce and that weeds were every instant gaining headway? Even the
rhythm of the rain was a reminder that the pea vines were being battered
down and that the barn roof was leaking.

Yet to flee from this uncongenial future and seek one more to his liking
did not occur to Martin Howe. He had been born with an uncompromising
sense of duty, and once convinced of an obligation, he would have scorned
to shirk it. The death of his parents left him no choice but to take up
his cross with New England Spartanism and bear it like a true disciple.
All the Howe capital was invested in land, in stock, and in agricultural
implements. To sell out, even were he so fortunate as to find a purchaser,
would mean shrinkage. And the farm once disposed of, what then? Had he
been alone in the world, he would not have paused to ask the question. But
there were Mary, Eliza, and Jane,--three sisters older than himself with
no resources for earning a living. Even he himself was unskilled, and
should he migrate to the city, he would be forced to subsist more or less
by his wits; and to add to his uncertain fortunes the burden of three
dependent women would be madness. No, the management of the family
homestead was his inevitable lot. That he recognized.

What the abandonment of his "Castles in Spain" cost Martin only those who
knew him best appreciated; and they but dimly surmised. Resolutely he kept
his face s