this--having other people do your work for you? If this job isn't
finished in fifteen minutes, I'll whip you."

Bill would work swiftly and painfully, for the carrier was high
and hard for him to manipulate. But he would do his best,
desperate over the threat, his whole nature rebelling, not so
much at the task, as at the interruption of the pleasant stream
of pictures which had been flowing so excitingly through his
mind. Always it was like this--just when he was most blissfully
happy, he was jerked back to some mean, dirty job by the stern,
driving demands of his tireless father.

Without regard to the fact that harness is heavy, and a horse's
back high, Martin would order him to hitch up. He was perfectly
aware that it was too much for the child, but lack of affection,
and a vague, extenuating belief that especially trying jobs
developed one, made him merciless. The boy frequently boiled with
rage, but he was so weaponless, so completely in his father's
power--there was no escape from this tyranny. He knew he could
not live without him; even his mother could not do that. His
mother! What a sense of rest would come over him when he sat in
her capacious lap, his head on her soft shoulder. With her cheek
against his and her kind hand gently patting the back of his
still chubby one, something hard in him always melted away.

"Why do I love you so, mama," he asked once, "and hate papa so?"

Mrs. Wade realized what was in his sore heart and hers ached for
him, but she answered quietly: "You mustn't hate anybody, dear.
You shouldn't."