"Yes, Martin, I do," she returned fervently. "It's a wonderful
monument to leave behind you--this farm is."

His eyes grew somber. "That's what I've always thought it would
be," he answered, very low. "I've felt as if I was building
something that would last. Even the barns--they're ready to stand
for generations. But this minute, when the end is sitting at the
foot of this bed, I seem to see it all crumbling before me. You
won't stay here. Why should you --even if you do for a few years
you'll have to leave it sometime, and there's nothing that goes
to rack and ruin as quickly as a farm--even one like this."

"Oh, Martin, don't think such thoughts," she begged. "Your fever
is coming up; I can see it."

"What has it all been about, that's what I want to know," he went
on with quiet cynicism. "What have I been sweating
about--nothing. What is anyone's life? No more than mine. We're
all like a lot of hens in a backyard, scratching so many hours a
day. Some scratch a little deeper than those who aren't so
skilled or so strong. And when I stand off a little, it's all
alike. The end is as blind and senseless as the beginning on this
farm--drought and dust."

Martin closed his eyes wearily and gave a deep sigh. To his
wife's quickened ears, it was charged with lingering regret for
frustrated plans and palpitant with his consciousness of life's
evanescence and of the futility of his own success.

She waited patiently for him to continue his instructions, but