change of temperature was manifest, and Harlson slept with a blanket
close about him. The autumn had come briskly. And the last ash was
felled, the oxen for the last time scrambled through the wood with the
heavy logs, and for the last time ax and maul and wedge did sturdy
service. One day Grant Harlson lifted the last rail into place; then
climbed upon the fence, looked critically along it, and knew his work
in the country was well done. He was absorbed in the material aspect
of it just then. It was a good fence. Fifteen years later he strolled
one afternoon, cigar in mouth, across the wheat-field where the wood
had been, and inspected the fence he had built alone that summer, away
back. The rails had grown gray from the effect of time and storms, and
a rider was missing here and there, but the structure was a sound one
generally, and still equal to all needs. It was a great fence, well
built. He looked at the wasting evidence of the great ax strokes upon
the rail ends, and said, as did Brakespeare, when he visited the castle
of Huguemont and noted where his sword had chipped the stairway stone
in former fight; "It was a gallant fray."

There was the getting of pay--the selling of a Morgan yearling colt
sufficed the owner of the land for that--and the end of one part of one
human being's life was reached. He went to town again and lived there
a week or two. A life not held in bonds, but somehow under all
control. It was curious; he could not understand it; but, even in the
wood, he had out-grown Mrs. Rolfston. He was with her much. There was
no let nor hindrance to their united reckless being, but all was
different from the beginning. He was not selfish with her; he grew
more courteous and thoughtful, yet the woman knew she could not keep
him. There were stormy episodes and tender ones, threats and tears,
and plottings and pleadings, and all to the same unavailing end. Your
woman of thirty of this sort is a Hecla ever in eruption, but becoming