lived so dully, left as the ransom to be paid for his liberty. So
he and his Rose of Sharon would walk away--walk, because even the
car would be surrendered--and he would be free with the only
woman for whom he had ever yearned.

Would she be happy for long? His pride answered "yes," but
against his will he pictured himself being dumped ruthlessly into
the pitiless sixties while Rose still lingered in the glorious
twenties. This was a most unpleasant reflection and Martin
preferred to dismiss it. That belonged to tomorrow. He would wait
until then to fight tomorrow's battles. His mind came back to the
property again. Wasn't it rather impetuous to surrender all?
Wouldn't it be unfair to Rose to be so generous to his wife? She
had Bill. In a few years he would be old enough to run the farm.
Until then, with his help and good hired hands, she could do it
herself. Why not leave it and the goods on it to her and take the
mortgages and bonds with him? Rose was joy. He could hold her
more securely with comforts added to his great love. Her
happiness had to be thought of, had to be protected.

He could tell that his wife was still awake. He might begin to
talk and maybe they could arrange a settlement. But he was
getting too tired for a discussion that might invite tears and
even a fit of hysterics, like the one she had gone through before
their first child came dead. He could see her still as she looked
that morning in the barn crying: "You'll be punished for this
some day--you will--you will. You don't love me, but some time
you will love some one. Then you'll understand what it is to be
treated like this--" It gave him the creeps now to remember it.
It was like one of those old incantations; almost like a curse.