indignantly denied it. Yet he was uncomfortable, restless, unhappy. He
fancied Zora cared less for his company, and he gave her less, and then
was puzzled to find time hanging so empty, so wretchedly empty, on his
hands. When they were together in these days they found less to talk
about, and had it not been for the Silver Fleece which in magic
wilfulness opened both their mouths, they would have found their
companionship little more than a series of awkward silences. Yet in
their silences, their walks, and their sittings there was a
companionship, a glow, a satisfaction, as came to them nowhere else on
earth, and they wondered at it.

They were both wondering at it this morning as they watched their
cotton. It had seemingly bounded forward in a night and it must be hoed
forthwith. Yet, hoeing was murder--the ruthless cutting away of tenderer
plants that the sturdier might thrive the more and grow.

"I hate it, Bles, don't you?"

"Hate what?"

"Killing any of it; it's all so pretty."

"But it must be, so that what's left will be prettier, or at least more
useful."

"But it shouldn't be so; everything ought to have a chance to be
beautiful and useful."

"Perhaps it ought to be so," admitted Bles, "but it isn't."