but her sweet personality still lived. It remained in the house to watch over her boy, to guide his footsteps, to see that no harm ever might befall him.
In his loneliness the odd little Scobee grew up thinking of the house as his mother. It was a rarely beautiful reverence which old Hung Long Tom, tranquil dreamer, did much to foster. Hung Long Tom was like a father to the boy but the house was his mother.
Meanwhile Jethro Trent, taciturn, grim, gaunt figure, had gone about his farm, planting, ever planting, trying to drag life from the soil to make up for the life of his wife, Ardell Trent, who had fallen under the scourge of the soil. What Jethro's true feeling for Ardell was no one ever knew. Certainly he had not looked after her as carefully as his broad fields of wheat and the animals in his stables. He had not been unkind to her. Within his capacity he had given her every material thing that she desired. He had permitted her to build a house to her liking, he had supplied her with
abundant money, but all the real passion of his
