Everything was coming at once--drouth, wind, bull-calves, girl babies--and Death.... All were coming at once.... But no sons had ever come. None would ever come now. So--wages must go on.... A woman to mind the baby.... And somebody to keep house for him.... Expense piling on expense. And no outlook--no longer any chance to break even.... Where was he to get more money? He could not carry the farm on his own shoulders all alone. The more work planned, the more men needed; and the more it all cost. Increased acreage, redoubled production, got him no further. Always it was, at best, merely an even break--every loss offsetting every gain.... One of the cats came in with a barn rat hanging from her mouth, looked furtively at Odell, then slunk out, tail twitching. The man dropped his elbows on the centre table and took his unshaven face between both scarred fists.... The room had grown as still as death now. Which was fitting and proper. After a long while Dr. Wand descended the stairs. Odell stood up in the semi-dusk of the sitting room. “She didn’t ask for you again,” said the doctor. “Is--is she--gone?” “Yes.... Quite painlessly.” They walked slowly to the porch. It was nearly milking time. The herd was coming up the long lane,--the sun dipping low behind,--and a delicate rosy light over everything. “You got your milking to do,” said the doctor. “I’ll notify Wilbur Chase. I’ll see to everything, Elmer.” Wilbur Chase was the local undertaker. The doctor went out to the road, cranked his car, got in wearily, and rolled away toward the village. Odell stood motionless. In his ears sounded the cow-bells, tonk-a-tonk, tonk-a-tonk, as the Whitewater herd turned leisurely into the barn-yard. Ed Lister opened the sliding doors to the cow-barn. A frisky heifer or two balked; otherwise the herd went in soberly, filing away behind spotless, sweet-smelling rows of stalls, greeted thunderously by the great herd-bull from his steel bull-pen. Odell, heavy-eyed, turned on his heel and went upstairs. But at the door of the silent room above the nurse barred his way. “I’ll let you know when you can see her,” she said. “She isn’t ready.” Odell gazed at her in a bewildered way. “The baby is in the other room,” added the nurse. “Don’t wake her. Better not touch her.” He went, obediently, stood in the doorway, his scarred hands hanging. Eris lay asleep in her brand new cradle, almost invisible under the white fabrics that swathed her. The chamber of death was no stiller than this dim room where life was beginning. There was no sound, no light except a long, rosy ray from the setting sun falling athwart the cradle. So slept Eris, daughter of discord, and so named,--an unwelcome baby born late in her parents’ lives, and opening her blind, bluish eyes like an April wind-flower in a world still numb from winter. Odell stared at the mound of covers. It would be a long while before this baby could be of any use at Whitewater Farms. CHAPTER II