chores in a grave, automatic way, absorbed in anything but
agriculture. Hardly ever did he pass through his barn without
paying homage to his own progressiveness and oozing approval of
the mechanical milker, driven by his own electrical dynamo, the
James Way stanchions with electric lights above, the individual
drinking fountains at the head of each cow, the cork-brick
floors, the scrupulously white-washed walls, and the absence of
odor, with the one exception of sweet, fermented silage. But,
tonight, he was not seeing these symbols of material superiority.
Instead he was thinking of a girl with eyes as soft as a dove's,
lips like a thread of scarlet and small white teeth as even as a
flock of his own Shropshire sheep. What else did that old King
Solomon say? God Almighty, he thought, there was a man who
understood! He'd try to get a chance to reread that Song of Songs
that was breaking his own heart with its joy and its sadness.

His reverie was broken abruptly by the jangling supper-bell. When
he reached the back door Bill was already at the table and Rose,
in a simple gown that brought out the appealing lines of her slim
young body, was deftly helping his wife in the final dishing up.
As Martin stood a moment, looking in at the bright scene and
listening to the happy chatter, he heard her ask if he had got
her a job. At sight of him she cried excitedly: "Oh, Uncle
Martin! You can't think how I adore my beautiful room! And Bill
says it was you who first thought of building it for me. You old
darling! You and Aunt Rose are the best people in the whole wide
world. How can I ever thank you?"

"I'll tell you," he smiled, "forget all about that job and just
stay around here and make us all young. Time enough to work when