an arrow. He stood six feet in his stockings and weighed two hundred
and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a
wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old,
and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats
of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him.
He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him--
he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength
seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country
school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on
farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it
not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his
father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at
his own terms.

"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed
you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you
didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.

"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the
wagon to greet his grandfather.

"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands.
"Cooped up too much in that grocery store--you need the open air of
the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there--see
what the country has done for him."

"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the
open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I