was positive, and a brave little smile swimming up from
her troubled heart, she set about, with much energy, to achieve order,
valiantly fighting back her insistent tears as she worked.

Meanwhile, Martin, totally oblivious of any cause for storm, was making
trips to and from the barrel which contained shorts mixed with water'
skimmed milk and house slops, the screaming, scrambling shoats gulping
the pork-making mixture as rapidly as he could fetch it. He worked
unconsciously, thinking, typically, not of Rose's reaction to this new
life, but of what it held in store for himself.

He glanced toward the shack. Already the mere fact of a woman's presence
beneath its roof seemed, to him, to give it a different aspect. Through
the open door he observed that Rose was sweeping. How he had always
hated the thought of any one handling what was his! He dumped another
bucket of slops into the home-made trough. Why couldn't she just let
things alone and get supper quietly? Heaven only knew what he had gotten
himself into! But of one thing he was miserably certain; never again
would he have that comfortable seclusion to which he had grown so
accustomed. He had known this would be true, but the sight of Rose and
her broom brought the realization of it home to him with an all too
irritating vividness. Yes, everything was going to be different. There
would be many changes and he would never know what to expect next. Why
had he brought this upon himself; had he not lived alone for years? He
had let the habit of obtaining whatever he started after get the better
of him. Even today he could have drawn back from this marriage. But, he
had sensed that Rose was about to do so herself, and this knowledge had
pushed his determination to the final notch.

Martin shook his head ruefully. "This is 'The Song of Songs," he smiled,
"and there is my Rose of Sharon. Guess I was never intended for a
Solomon." Now that she was so close to him, in the very core of his
life, this woman frightened him; instead of desire, there was dread. He
wished Rose had been a man that he might go into that shack and eat
ham and eggs with him while they talked crops and politics and animals.
There would be no thrills in this opening chapter and he, if not his
wife, would be shaken.

Martin was mental, an incurable individualist who found himself
sufficient unto himself. He was different from his neighbors in that
he was always thinking, asking questions and ponderin