despised their Heaven. Their religion, to him, seemed such a
crudely selfish affair. They were always expecting something from
God; always praying for petty favors--begging and whining for
money, or good crops, or better health. Martin would have none of
this nonsense. He was as selfish as they, probably more so, he
conceded, but he hoped he would never reach the point of currying
favor with anyone, even God. With his own good strength he would
answer his own prayers. This farm was the nearest he would ever
come to a paradise and on it he would be his own God. Rose did
not share these feelings. She went to church each Sunday and read
her Bible daily with a simple faith that defied derision. Once,
when she was gone, Martin idly hunted out the Song of Solomon.
His lips curled with contempt at the passionate rhapsody. He knew
a thing or two, he allowed, about these wonderful Roses of Sharon
and this Song of Songs. Lies, all lies, every word of it! Yet, in
spite of himself, from time to time, he liked to reread it. He
fancied this was because of the sardonic pleasure its superlative
phrases gave him, but the truth was it held him. He despised
sentiment, tenderness, and, by the strangeness of the human mind,
he went, by way of paradox, to the tenderest, most sublime spot
in a book supreme in tenderness and sublimity.

At forty, he owned and, with the aid of two hired hands, worked
an entire section of land. The law said it was his and he had the
might to back up the law. On these six hundred and forty broad
acres he could have lived without the rest of the world. Here he
was King. Other farms he regarded as foreign countries, their
owners with impersonal suspicion. Yet he trusted them after a
fashion, because he had learned from many and devious dealings
with a large assortment of people that the average human being is