On another wall hung a portrait of his father, who had been dead nine years. His father had been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer. Eventually, this longing had been realized in the purchase of the twenty acres in Greenstreet, at that time a village with not one street which could be called green, and without a sure water supply for irrigation, at least on the land which would grow corn and potatoes and wheat. To be sure, there was water enough of its kind down on the lower slopes, besides saleratus and salt grass and cattails and the tang of marshlands in the air. Schoolmaster Trent's operations in farming had not been very successful, and when he died, the result of his failure was a part of the legacy which descended to his wife and son.
Dorian took a book from the shelf as if to read; but visions intruded of some beautiful volumes, now somewhere down the canal, a mass of water-soaked paper. He could not read. He finished his last chocolate, said his prayers, and went to bed.
Saturday was always a busy day with Dorian and his mother; but that morning Mrs. Trent was up earlier than usual. The white muslin curtains were already in the wash when Dorian looked at his mother in the summer kitchen.
"What, washing today!" he asked in surprise. Monday was washday.
"The curtains were black; they must be clean for tomorrow."
"You can see dirt where I can't see it."
"I've been looking for it longer, my boy. And, say, fix up the line you broke the other day."
"Sure, mother."
The morning was clear and cool. He did his chores, then went out to his ten-acre field of wheat and lucerne. The grain was heading beautifully; and there were prospects of three cuttings of hay; the potatoes were doing fine, also the corn and the squash and the melons. The young farmer's heart was made glad to see the coming harvest, all the work of his own hands.
For this was the first real crop they had raised. For years they had struggled and pinched. Sometimes Dorian was for giving up and moving to the city; but the mother saw brighter prospects when the new canal should be finished. And then her boy would be better off working for himself on the farm than drudging for others in the town; besides, she had a desire to remain on the spot made dear by her husband's work; and so they struggled along, making their payments on the land and later on the canal stock. The summit of their difficulties seemed now to have passed, and better times were ahead. Dorian looked down at his ragged shoes and laughed to himself good-naturedly. Shucks, in a few months he would have plenty of money to buy shoes, perhaps also a Sunday suit for himself, and everything his mother needed. And if there should happen to be more book bargains, he might venture in that direction again.