was. Her whole temperament, in so much as he permitted himself to
be aware of it, her whole nature, jarred on his.

"When is it due?"

"October."

"It's lucky harvest will be over; silo filling, too," was his
only comment.

In spite of Rose's three long years with Martin his lack of
enthusiasm was like a sharp stab. What had she expected, she
asked herself sternly. To be taken in his arms and rejoiced over
as others were at such a moment? What did he care so long as he
wouldn't have to hire extra help for her in the busy season! It
was incredible--his hardness.

Why couldn't she hate him? He was mean enough to her, surely.
"I'm as foolish as old Rover," she thought bitterly. The faithful
dog lived for his master and yet Rose could not remember ever
having seen Martin give him a pat. "When I once hold my own
little baby in my arms, I won't care like this. I'll have someone
else to fill my heart," she consoled herself, thrilling anew with
the conviction that then she would be more than recompensed for
everything. The love she had missed, the house that had been
stolen from her--what were they in comparison to this growing bit
of life? Meanwhile, she longed as never before to feel near to
Martin. She could not help recalling how gallantly her father had
watched over her mother when she carried her last child and how
eagerly they all had waited upon her. At times, the contrast was