Martin shook his head ruefully. "This is 'The Song of Songs," he
smiled, "and there is my Rose of Sharon. Guess I was never
intended for a Solomon." Now that she was so close to him, in the
very core of his life, this woman frightened him; instead of
desire, there was dread. He wished Rose had been a man that he
might go into that shack and eat ham and eggs with him while they
talked crops and politics and animals. There would be no thrills
in this opening chapter and he, if not his wife, would be shaken.

Martin was mental, an incurable individualist who found himself
sufficient unto himself. He was different from his neighbors in
that he was always thinking, asking questions and pondering over
his conclusions. He had convinced himself that each demand of the
body was useless except the food that nourished it, the clothes
that warmed it and the sleep that repaired it. He hated soft
things and the twist in his mind that was Martin proved to him
their futility. Love? It was an empty dream, a shell that fooled.
Its joys were fleeting. There was but one thing worth while and
that was work. The body was made for it--the thumb to hold the
hammer, the hand to pump the water and drive the horses, the legs
to follow the plow, herd the cattle and chase the pigs from the
cornfield, the ears to listen for strange noises from the stock,
the eyes to watch for weeds and discover the lice on the hens,
the mouth to yell the food call to the calves, the back to carry
the bran. Work meant money, and money meant--what? It was merely
a stick that measured the amount of work done. Then why did he
toil so hard and save so scrupulously? His answer was always
another question. What was there in life that could enable one to
forget it faster? That woman in there waiting for him--oh, she