always looked upon that church as belonging to him. It must never appear shabby. Constantly he kept it painted and in repair. It was the shrine which he erected to Ardell although such a thought never entered his mind.
It had always been the wish of Jethro Trent to have a son who would follow in his footsteps, turn to the soil, carry on the Trent tradition. It would be a marvelous thing if the strain of Trent blood should be a part of the soil of America for hundreds of years. As long as America should last the family of Trent should be farmers, handing on the ruling of those vast acres as though it were a monarchy from father to son endlessly. For a farmer to be successful he must love the soil, he must make of it a friend. Then only will the soil respond and give its best. The soil is a living, pulsating thing. If it were not, how then could it be the source of all life? Although Jethro Trent seldom stopped to reflect much about it, these were his beliefs. He worshipped the
soil, he adored it. The first buds of spring
