casionally,
he would wonder why he was working so hard, saving so assiduously and
investing so consistently. His growing fortune seemed to mean little now
that his affluence was thoroughly established. For whom was he working?
he would ask himself. For the life of him, he could not answer. Surely
not for his Rag-weed of Sharon. Nellie? She was well enough fixed and he
didn't care a shot for her husband. Then why? Sometimes he pursued this
chain of thought further, "I'll die and probably leave five times as
much as I have now to her and who knows what she'll do with it? I'll
never enjoy any of it myself. I'm not such a fool as to expect it. What
difference can a few thousand dollars more or less make to me from now
on? Then why do I scheme and slave? Pshaw! I've known the answer ever
since I first turned the soil of this farm. The man who thinks about
things knows there's nothing to life. It's all a grinding chase for the
day when someone will pat my cheek with a spade."

He might have escaped this materialism through the church, but to him
it offered no inducements. He could find nothing spiritual in it. In his
opinion, it was a very carnal institution conducted by very hypocritical
men and women. He smiled at their Hell and 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 mi