"Then I wonder if you knew an Englishman named Marston?" George
interposed.

"I certainly did; he died last winter. Oughtn't to have come out
farming; he hadn't the grip."

George felt surprised. He had always admired Marston, who had excelled
in whatever he took in hand. It was strange and disconcerting to hear
him disparaged.

"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he asked.

"Why, yes. I've nothing against the man. I liked him--guess everybody
did--but the contract he was up against was too big for him. Had his
first crop frozen, and lost his nerve and judgment after that--the man
who gets ahead here must have the grit to stand up against a few bad
seasons. Marston acted foolishly; wasted his money buying machines and
teams he could have done without, and then let up when he saw it
wouldn't pay him to use them right off; but that was part his wife's
fault. She drove him pretty hard--though, in some ways, I guess he
needed it."

George frowned. Sylvia, he admitted, was ambitious, and she might have
put a little pressure upon Marston now and then; but that she should
have urged him on toward ruin in her eagerness to get rich was
incredible.

"I think you must be mistaken about his wife," he remarked.

"Well," drawled the Canadian, "I'm not always right."