But alas for Charlie! The life on the old homestead, which had been irksome enough at its best, grew suddenly unbearable. The ancient farmhouse, lit up temporarily by the brightness and sweetness of the young life so quickly and pathetically ended, grew tenfold more dark and forbidding than ever. It contained one jewel, indeed, his baby, Dannie; but the child was not yet old enough to cheer the father’s heart with companionable ways, and the days dragged by in ever increasing loneliness and sorrow. The tasks of the farm, against the performance of which he had always rebelled, became burdensome now beyond endurance, and, on every possible pretext, he found his way, with compass and chain, outside the borders of his father’s four hundred acres to do work of which he grew more and more fond as his knowledge and experience increased. But all this was like gall and wormwood to his father. If Abner Pickett had set his heart on anything, it was that Charlie should follow in his footsteps as manager and eventually owner of one of the largest and best farms in Meredith County, in which, like his father, he should take a just and pardonable pride. That Charlie did not develop a fondness for the farmer’s life was a sore trial to the old man, but he hoped that, with advancing years and larger wisdom, the boy, grown to manhood, would yet take kindly to the toil and triumphs of the farm. And when Charlie settled down in the old homestead, with his sweet young wife to cheer and encourage him, and went out to the tasks of tillage with a hope and vigor almost akin to zest for the work, the old man felt that the fulness of the time for which he had long hoped and waited was at last come. But his satisfaction was short-lived. With the death of Charlie’s wife it vanished. And when the boy again took up his more congenial occupation, and wandered off day after day with compass and chain, leaving the farm to be cared for and worked by others, the old man’s cup of sorrow and bitterness was indeed full. Between him and his son there had been no open rupture, but day by day their relations with each other became more strained, and each felt in the air the breath of impending disaster. It was early spring when Charlie’s wife died; it was late August now. The summer, rich in warmth and showers, yielding an abundance from field and garden, vine and tree, had brought to Abner Pickett only sorrow, disappointment, and bitterness. All these were depicted in his rugged face as he stood in the waning sunlight and watched the creaking, jolting wagon with its fragrant load move slowly to the barn. Up the road from the direction of the gap came Charlie, his compass on his arm, his tripod on his shoulder, and his two-rod chain swinging loosely from his free hand. He was a stalwart young fellow, blue-eyed and fair-haired, tall and muscular, bronzed with the sun and wind, vigorous with the springing life of early manhood.