remain on the veranda with him. The quietude did something to her. It made her melancholy, yet too there was a strange fascination about it.
Often she wondered why she had come with Yekial to the farm. Of course it was only a passing whim but why did she remain? She was not exactly happy. Yet the thought of fleeing from the house never once entered her mind. In a way she was interested in Yekial. His very immensity attracted her. If only he wouldn't sit for such long periods without speaking. He was an interesting conversationalist when he cared to exert himself but he only did so at rare intervals.
It was odd, in a way, not to have a procession of men, an endless parade of lovers marching toward her. All the rank and file had vanished. The footsteps had faded away in the distance. Now there was nothing but lowing herds, acres of Mieat and corn and nights of savage wooing with a lover who ofttimes was incoherent with passion, and generally reeking of the stable and the soil.
Chapter IX
Mary did not really like it on the farm but nevertheless weeks rolled by and she continued to remain there. She had stumbled into a rut and lacked the energy to attempt to get out. She was neither entirely happy nor entirely miserable. The soil was not in sympathy with her. Yekial Meigs loved it. It had been his cradle. It would be his grave. And in the short span between it had given him life, wealth and all the contentment he possessed.
After the first ardor of his desire for Mary wore off, his manner abruptly changed. He ceased entering into long conversations. He had won her. She belonged to him. It was no longer necessary to woo her. Now he could give all his time to his fields.
At night he usually went to sleep at once. This did not please Mary. She wanted love. Night after night she walked about the rooms. Even the fact that she was utterly fired when she
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