de
him different from a great many people. But he thinks that is why he's
gone ahead and so he's trying to raise you the same way. If he really
didn't care about you, Billy, it wouldn't bother him what you did."

In the silence that fell they could hear old Molly bellowing with
pathetic monotony for her calf that had been taken from her. Yesterday
she had been so proud, so happy. She had had such a hard time bringing
it into the world, too. Martin had been obliged to tie a rope to its
protruding legs and pull with all his strength. It didn't seem fair to
think that the trusting-eyed little fellow had been snatched from her so
soon, as if her pain had been an entirely negligible incident. Already,
after six short weeks, he was hanging, drawn and quartered, in one of
Fallon's meat-markets.

"I hate this place!" burst out the boy passionately. "I hate it!"

"All farms are cruel," agreed his mother quickly. "But I suppose they
have to be. People must have milk and they must have veal."

At nine, though his fingers would become cramped and his wrists would
pain him, Bill had three cows to account for twice a day. At five in the
morning, he would be shaken by Martin and told to hurry up. It would be
dark when he stepped out into the chill air, and he would draw back with
a shiver. Somewhere on these six hundred acres was the herd and it was
his chore to find it and bring it in. He would go struggling through the
pasture, unable to see twenty-five feet ahead of him, the cold dew or
snow soaking through his overalls, his shoes becoming wet. Often he
would go a mile north only to have to wander to another end of the farm
before he located them. Other times, when he was lucky, they would be
waiting within a hundred yards of the barn. Oh, how precious the warm
bed was, and how his growing body craved a few more hours of sleep! He
had a trick of pulling the sheet up over his head, as if thus he could
shut out the world, but always his father was there to rout him out from
this nest and set him none too gently on his feet; always there was a
herd to be brought in and udders to be emptied. It made no difference to
Martin that the daily walk to and from the district school was long,
and left no spare time; it made no difference that the long hours at his
lessons left the boy longing for play--always there was the herd, twice
a day, cows and cows without end.

At twelve, Bill was plowing behind four heavy horses. He could run a
mo