itting.

"You are tired," she said at last.

"Well, not in the body exactly, but I feel like resting."

There was no complaint in his tone, but a slight touch of irony.

"Do you think that you will make a good farmer?" she asked.

"As good as the times and our situation allow," he replied. "Wandering
parties of the savages are likely to pass near here and in the course of
time they may send back an army. Besides one has to hunt now, as for a
long while we must depend on the forest for a part of our food."

It seemed to her that these things did not cause him sorrow, that he
turned to them as a sort of relief: his eyes sparkled more brightly when
he spoke of the necessity for hunting and the possible passage of Indian
parties which must be repelled. Girl though she was, she felt again a
little glow of sympathy, guessing as she did his nature; she could
understand how he thrilled when he heard the voices of the forest
calling to him.

They reached the gate of the palisade and passed within. It was full
dusk now, the forest blurring together into a mighty black wall, and the
outlines of the houses becoming shadowy. The Ware family sat awhile that
evening by the hearth fire, and John Ware was full of satisfaction. A
worthy man, he had neither imagination nor primitive instincts and he
valued the wilderness only as a cheap place in which to make homes. He
spoke much of clearing the ground, of the great crops that would come,
and of the profit and delight afforded by regular work year after year
on the farm. Henry Ware sat in silence, listening to his father's
oracular tones, but his mother, glancing at him, had doubts to which she
gave no utterance.

The days passed and as the spring glided into summer they grew hotter.
The sun glowed upon the fields, and the earth parched with thirst. In
the forest the leaves were dry and they rustled when the wind blew upon
them. The streams sank away again, as they had done during the siege,
and labor became more trying. Yet Henry Ware never murmured, though his
soul was full of black bitterness. Often he would resolutely turn his
eyes from the forest where he knew the deep cool pools were, and keep
them on the sun-baked field. His rifle, which had seemed to reproach
him, inanimate object though it was, he hid in a corner of the house
where he could not see it and its temptation. In order to create a
counter-irritant he plunged into work with the most astonishing vigor.

John Wa