As she followed the beaten track by the orchard, her gaze swept the ploughed fields, where the upturned earth was changing from chocolate to purple as the light faded. Around her the farm spread out like an open fan, ploughed ground melting into waste land, fields sinking into neglected pasture, pasture rising gradually into the dark belt of the pines. She knew that the place was more to her than soil to be cultivated; that it was the birthplace and burial ground of hopes, desires, and disappointments. The old feeling that the land thought and felt, that it possessed a secret personal life of its own, brushed her mood as it sped lightly by. "All this and just waste, waste, waste," she said slowly. Nathan glanced up at the big pine on the hill. "Ever think of cutting that tree down for timber?" he inquired. She shook her head. "It's the only thing Pa likes to watch now. He loves it." Nathan neighed under his breath, with the sound Dan gave when he saw clover. "Well, I kind of know how he feels. I like a big tree myself." "Sometimes in stormy weather that pine is like a rocky crag with the sea beating against it," Dorinda said. "I used to remember it up in Maine. I suppose that is why Pa likes to look at it. All the meaning of his life has gone into it, and all the meaning of the country. Endurance, that's what it is." "What a fancy you've got," Nathan answered admiringly, "and always had even when you were a child. But you're right about endurance. This farm looks to me as if it had endured about as much as it can stand." "Oh, I'm going to change all that." "Then you'd better get busy." "I'll begin to-morrow, if you'll send me some field hands." She stopped and made a gesture, full of vital energy, in the direction of the road. "I want to make a new pasture out of that eighteen-acre field next to the old one." "It has run to broomsedge now, hasn't it?" "Yes, but it used to be a cornfield in great-grandfather's day. If you can get me the hands, I'll start them clearing it off the first thing in the morning." He chuckled with enjoyment. "Oh, I'll get you anything you want, but the niggers won't work for nothing, you know." "I've borrowed two thousand dollars. That ought to help, oughtn't it?" She wished he wouldn't say "niggers." That scornful label was already archaic, except among the poorest of the "poor white class" at Pedlar's Mill. "Two thousand dollars!" he ejaculated. "Well, that ought to go some way." "I'll have to spend a good deal for cows," she explained. "How much will they ask at Green Acres?" For a minute he hesitated. "That's a fine Jersey herd," he replied presently. "I don't reckon they'll take less than a hundred dollars for a good cow. You can get scrub cows cheaper, but you want good ones." "Oh, yes. I want good ones."