scarcely to be borne.

Rose was troubled with nausea, but Martin pooh-poohed, as
childish, the notion of dropping some of her responsibilities.
Didn't his mares work almost to the day of foaling? It was good
for them, keeping them in shape. And the cows--didn't they go
about placidly until within a few hours of bringing their calves?
Even the sows--did they droop as they neared farrowing? Why
should a woman be so different? Her child would be healthier and
she able to bring it into the world with less discomfort to
herself if she went about her ordinary duties in her usual way.
Thus Martin, impersonally, logically.

"That would be true," Rose agreed, "if the work weren't so heavy
and if I were younger."

"It's the work you're used to doing all the time, isn't it?
Because you aren't young is all the more reason you need the
exercise. You're not going to hire extra help, so you might just
as well get any to-do out of your mind," he retorted, the dreaded
note in his voice.

She considered leaving him. If she had earned her living before,
she could again. More than once she had thought of doing this,
but always the hope of a child had shone like a tiny bright star
through the midnight of her trials. Since she had endured so
much, why not endure a little longer and reap a dear reward?
Then, too, she could never quite bring herself to face the
pictures her imagination conjured of Martin, struggling along
uncared for. Now, as her heart hardened against him, an inner