ence for her had rounded out into complete fulfillment.
Then she would carry her boy upstairs. While he still slept she would undress him, put on his night-gown which had been made from one of Benda's old shirts and tuck him snugly into bed. For a few moments she would linger there gazing down at his winsome, cute face. He was her own boy, her own flesh and blood, a bit of life to work for and cherish. No wonder she imagined the night wind about the eaves was singing songs of contentment for a little house.
Life on the Joel farm was not easy. It was work, work, work. Only one thing prevented them from being absolute slaves to toil. They loved their work. Sometimes when Benda was ill Linda drove the plow herself. It was pitifully hard but there was a grim beauty about it. She loved the fresh crash of the wind against her cheeks. This was almost primitive existence. It held a curious fascination. It was good to struggle with the soil for the food one was to eat.
