When Abner Pickett heard footsteps behind him he turned and faced his son. “Well, father, I’m back.” Charlie had been in Jackson County for three days tracing warrantee lines. “Yes, I see,” replied the old man, the expression of his face absolutely unchanged. “Is Dannie well?” “So far as I know.” Charlie started on, but before he had gone a dozen yards, he turned and came back to his father. “Father,” he said, “let’s end it.” “End what?” “This awkwardness, this uncertainty, this everlasting disagreement about the farm. I can’t do farm work, father, I’m not fitted for it--I hate it.” Charlie should have been less impulsive, more considerate. To declare farm work hateful was, in the mind of Abner Pickett, rank treason. But Charlie was too much like his father to gloss things over. He said what he felt, whether wise or unwise. Abner Pickett changed his rake from one hand to the other, and still looked at the bulky load of hay making its slow way to the dark and gaping entrance to the barn. “Yes,” he said slowly and coldly; “that’s been apparent for some time. There’s dogs that’ll bite the hand that feeds ’em.” Charlie’s face flushed. “Don’t be unjust, father. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. But I simply can’t stand it on the farm--and I won’t.” The old man was still impassive. “No? Well, you’re of age. Your time’s your own. There is no law to compel you to work, exceptin’ the law of self-preservation. If you choose to go gallivantin’ round the country like old Hiram Posten, with a needle an’ a Jacob’s staff, runnin’ out people’s back yards for ’em, it ain’t nobody’s business but your own. But men that stay on my farm must work on my farm.” Charlie stood for a moment gazing at his father intently. “Does that mean,” he said at last, “that I must give up my surveying or leave my home?” The old man turned on his questioner suddenly, aroused at last from his seeming impassiveness. “Look here, young man,” he said, “I’ve got the best four hundred acres o’ land in Meredith County. After I’m through with it it’s yours if you want it. But you can’t get it by runnin’ land lines in Jackson County all summer, an’ huntin’ muskrats in Beaver all winter. If you want my farm, you’ve got to earn it, an’ the only way you can earn it is to stay home an’ work it like your father an’ your gran’father did before you. Now, that’s the last word. Take it or leave it as you choose.” Charlie took no time for thought, no time to counsel with himself. As quickly and decisively as though he had been putting aside a toy he replied:-- “Very well, father; I leave it.”