t afford to turn its scornful back upon the
affairs of the farm-hand. The field laborer had a heart, a talkative
heart, perhaps, but a heart that society would one day learn to fear. It
was not heartlessness that would overthrow the political state and
trample upon the rich; it was heart, abused heart, that would give
crushing weight to the vengeful foot. This was the substance of his
talk, the egotism of muscle, a contempt for the luxuries of the refined
brain, but with a longing to imitate the appearance of leisure by
wearing white linen and lying in bed till the sun was high. Milford
recognized the voice of the discontented farmer.

"You remember the speeches of the last campaign," said he. "You believe
that the laborer is to overturn society. All right. But that has nothing
to do with my object. That makes no difference, however, since
everything leads to the distress of the farmer. But I want to tell you
and all the rest that it is your own fault, as one and as a whole. You
never read anything but murders and robberies, or the grumblings of some
skate that wants an office. You haven't schooled yourselves into
sharpness enough to see that he is trying to use you. You get up before
sunrise, and work till after dark, and think that the whole world is
watching you. The world doesn't care a snap, I'll tell you that."

"And that's just it, Bill; the world's tryin' to do us."

"Yes, and it will do you."

"I know it, and that's the reason I want to marry out of it."

"That is to say, you want to 'do' a woman to get out of it yourself.
What do you expect to give her?"

"Why, I'll give her a good husband, a man that'll fight for her, do
anything----"

"Except to work for her," Milford broke in. The hired man grinned. "He
said that a good husband was about all that a woman ought to expect,
these days; he would not fall short, and a man who did not disappoint a
good woman came very near to the keeping of all commandments. He was not
going to marry for property. But if property made a woman beautiful to
the rich, why should it make her ugly to the poor?"

"But you say she is homely and freckled."

"I said freckled, Bill; I didn't say homely. Why, I like freckles. I
think they are the puttiest things in the world. They catch me every
time. A trout wouldn't be half as putty if he wan't speckled. And if
this woman is a trout and has snapped at my fly, all right. The world
ain't got a right to say a word."

"The world d