life was given to the soil. The soil was his mistress. When he was upon his knees in the fields his face glowed. He touched the lush warm earth with a reverent hand. Like his father and his father's father he was as much a part of the soil as the earth itself. He was a product of the soil, the soil had given him life, it had given him strength. From it he drew all the peace which his life had ever known. He was immensely wealthy. Each year his crops were bounteous, more abundant than the last as he slowly steadily added to his vast holdings. But he never thought of himself as rich. He still lived on in the simple manner of his boyhood. There was nothing that mere money could give him that he could not find in the soil. The wheat was more valuable in his eyes than the gold he got for it. He was not a religious man. Seldom did he go to church although on several occasions he rebuilt the little church in Galvey to which his wife Ardell had always gone. Ardell had been the daughter of John Fleming, the pastor. For
some reason unknown to himself Jethro
