LITMIR.BIZ

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was abashed before the harsh logic of youth. “Oh, son,” she murmured brokenly, “there are things one can’t explain. I suppose it may seem strange to you—but his life has been so empty. He has missed so much! Everything, Billy.”

      “Then it’s his own fault,” judged the boy. “If ever anybody’s always had his own way and done just as he darn pleased it’s father. I wish he’d die, that’s what I wish.”

      “Bill!” His mother’s tone was stern.

      “There you are!” he marvelled. “You must have wished it lots of times yourself. I know you have. Yet you always talk as if you loved him.”

      In Rose’s eyes, the habitual look of patience and understanding deepened. How could Bill, as yet scarcely tried by life, comprehend the purging flames through which she had passed or realize time’s power to reveal unsuspected truths.

      “When you’ve been married to a man nearly twenty-two years and have built up a place together, there’s bound to be a bond between you,” she eluded. “He just lives for this farm. It’s almost as dear to him as you are to me, son, and it’s a wonderful heritage, Bill, a magnificent heritage. Just think! Two generations have labored to build it out of the dust. Your father’s whole life is in it. Your father’s and mine. And your grandmother’s. If only you could ever come to care for it!”

      Bill fidgeted uneasily. “You mean you want me to go on with it?” he demanded. “You want me to come back to it, settle down to be a farmer—like father?”

      The tone in which he asked this question made Rose choose her words carefully.

      “What are your plans, son? What do you want to be—not just now, but finally?”

      “I can’t see what difference it makes what a fellow is—except that in one business a man makes more than in another. And I can’t see either that it does a person a bit of good to have money. I’m having more fun right now than father or you ever had—more fun than anybody I know. Mother,” and his face was solemn as if with a great discovery, “I’ve figured it out that it’s silly to do as most people—just live to work. I’m going to work just enough to live comfortably. Not one scrap more, either. You can’t think how I hate the very thought of it.”

      Rose sighed. Couldn’t she, indeed! She understood only too well how deeply this rebellion was rooted. The hours when he had been dragged up from the far shores of a dreamful slumber to shiver forth in the chill darkness to milk and chore, still rankled. Those tangy frosty afternoons, when he had been forced to clean barns and plow while the other boys went rabbit and possum hunting or nutting, were afternoons whose loss he still mourned. Nothing had yet atoned for the evenings when he had been torn from his reading and sent sternly to bed because he must get up so early. Always work had stolen from him these treasures—dreams, recreation and knowledge. He had been obliged to fight the farm and his father for even a modicum of them—the things that made life worth living. And the irony of it—that eventually it would be this farm and Martin’s driving methods which, if he became reconciled to his father, would make it possible for him to drink all the fullness of leisure.

      It was too tragic that the very thing which should have stood for opportunity to the boy had been used to embitter him and drive him into danger. But he must not lose his birthright. An almost passionate desire welled in Rose’s heart to hold on to it for him. True, she too had been a slave to the farm. Yet not so much a slave to it, she distinguished, as to Martin’s absorption in its development. And of late years there had been for her, running through all the humdrum days, a satisfaction in perfecting it. In her mind now floated clearly the ideal toward which her husband was striving. She had not guessed how much it had become her own until she felt herself being drawn relentlessly by Bill’s quiet, but implacable determination to have her leave it all behind. If only he would try again, she felt sure all would be so different! His father had learned a lesson, of that she was positive, and though he would not promise it, would not be so hard on the boy. And with this new independence of Bill’s to strengthen her, they could resist Martin more successfully as different issues came up. She could manage to help her boy get what he wanted out of life without his having to pay such a terrible price as, the mine on one hand, and his father’s displeasure on the other, might exact, for she knew that if he persisted too long, the break with Martin could never be bridged and that in the end his father would evoke the full powers of the law to disinherit him and tie her own hands as completely as possible in that direction.

      But she was far too wise to press such arguments in her son’s present mood. They would have to drift for a while, she saw that clearly, until she could gradually impress upon him how different farming would be if he were his own master. In time, he might even come to understand how much Martin needed her. “Say you will,” Bill, pleading, insistent, broke in on her train of reflections, “I’ve always dreamed of this day, when we’d go away, and now it’s come. I can take care of you.”

      As he stood there, a glorious figure in his youthful self-confidence, a turn of his head reminded her a second time of Martin, recalling sharply the way her husband had looked the night he told her of his love for the other Rose. He had been bothered by no fine qualms about abandoning herself. She thought of his final surrender of love to wisdom. It was only youth that dared pursue happiness—to purchase delicious idleness by gambling with death. Billy was her boy. His dreams and hopes should be hers; her way of life, the one that gave him the most joy. She would follow him, if need be, to the end of the earth.

      “Very well, son,” she said simply, her voice breaking over the few words. “If a year from now you still feel like this, I’ll do as you wish.”

      “You don’t know how I hate him,” muttered the boy. “It’s only when I’m tramping in the woods, or in the middle of some book I like that I can forgive him for living. No, mother, I don’t mean all that,” he laughed, giving her a bear-like hug.

      It was in this more reasonable side, this ability to change his point of view quickly when he became convinced he was wrong, that Mrs. Wade now put her faith. She would give him plenty of rope, she decided, not try to drive him. It would all come right, if she only waited, and she prayed, nightly, with an increasing tranquillity, that he might be kept safe from harm, taking deep comfort in the new light of contentment that was gradually stealing into his face. After all, each one had to work out his destiny in his own way, she supposed.

      It was less than a month later that her telephone rang, and Rose, calmly laying aside her sewing and getting up rather stiffly because of her rheumatism, answered, thinking it probably a call from Martin, who had left earlier in the evening, to wind up a little matter of a chattel on some growing wheat. It had just begun to rain and she feared he might be stuck in the road somewhere, calling to tell her to come for him. But it was not Martin’s voice that answered.

      “Mrs. Wade?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why”—there was a forbidding break that made her shudder. A second later she convinced herself that it seemed a natural halt—people do such things without any apparent cause; but she could not help shaking a little.

      “Is it about Mr. Wade?” and as she asked this question she wondered why she had spoken her husband’s name when it was Bill’s that really had rushed through her mind.

      “No, ma’am, it ain’t about Martin Wade I’m callin’ you up, it ain’t him at all—”

      “I see.” She said this calmly and quietly, as though to impress her informant and reassure him. “What is it?” It was almost unnecessary to ask, for she knew already what had happened, knew that the boy had flung his dice and lost.

      “It’s your son, Mrs. Wade; it’s him I’m a-callin’ about. We’re about to bring him home to you—an’—and I thought it’d be better to call you up first so’s you might expect us an’ not take on with the suddenness of it all. This is Brown—Harry Brown—the nightman at the mine down here. We’ve got the ambulance here and we’re about ready to start.” There was an evenness about the strange voice that she understood

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