Ham turned away a face suddenly drawn.  A lemon afterglow hung above the hills, and where it darkened into the evening sky, a single star shone in a feeble point of light.  It was setting—­not rising—­and to the boy it seemed to be his star.

“I’ll go in and see him,” he said curtly.

Thomas Burton lay on his bed with his face turned to the wall.  When his son entered, he raised it and shifted it so that the yellow light of an oil lamp shone on it above the faded quilt.

It was a hopeless, beaten face, and for the first time in his life Ham saw the calloused hand which crept out to his own shake feebly.

He took it, and the father said slowly: 

“Ham, somehow I feel like an old hoss that just goes as long as he can an’ then lays down.  Right often he don’t get up no more.  It’s a hard fight for a boy to take up, this fight with rocks and poor soil, but I guess you’ll have to tackle it.  I didn’t quit so long as I could keep goin’.”

The boy nodded.  He composed his face and answered steadily:  “I guess you can depend on me.”

But outside by the barn fence he set down his milk-pail a few minutes later and in the coming night his face twitched and blackened.

“So after all,” Ham told himself bitterly, “I’ve got to stay.”

He reached out mechanically and began loosing the top bar from its sockets, while he called in the cows to be milked.  So many times had he taken down and put up that panel of bars that his hands knew from habit every roughness and knot in every rail.

“Mornin’ an’ evenin’ for three hundred and sixty-five days a year;” the boy said to himself in a low and very bitter voice.  “That makes seven hundred and thirty times a year I do this same, identical thing.  I ain’t nothin’ more than servant to a couple of cows.”  He stood and watched the two heifers trot through the opening to the water-trough by the pump.  “By the time I’m thirty-five,” he continued, “I’ll do it fourteen thousand and six hundred times more—­When Napoleon was thirty-five—­” But there he broke off with an inarticulate sound in his browned young throat that was very like a groan.

CHAPTER II

Mary Burton was eleven.  Of late, thoughts which had heretofore not disturbed her had insistently crept into the limelight of consciousness.  One morning as she stood, dish-towel in hand, over the kitchen table, her eyes stole ever and anon to the cracked mirror that hung against the wall, and after each glance she turned defiantly away with something like sullenness about her lips.  Elizabeth Burton, the mother, and Hannah Burton, the spinster aunt, went about their accustomed tasks with no thought more worldly than the duties of the moment.  It never occurred to Aunt Hannah to complain of anything that was.  If her life spelled unrelieved drudgery she accepted it as the station to which it had pleased