In the early years on the farm things were very bad indeed. There was a time when their money was absolutely gone. They lived on potatoes and corn-bread frequently for days at a time. And then once as Benda was almost finished plowing the only horse they owned had died. It was a calamity but they bore it with rare fortitude. It was no worse than Benda's disappointment when he failed as an engineer. His ancestors had been slaves, little more than beasts of burden. When they were acquired by a plantation they caused no more of a stir than the acquisition of a mule. In his own eyes he was no better than his ancestors. So he hitched himself to the plow and struggled to finish turning the soil in the balance of the field. The cords on his neck stood out in relief as he exerted every ounce of strength. Sweat poured from his brow. His face almost ceased to be human. He must not give up. If the soil failed him whence could he turn?
And Linda guided the plow. She pushed
with all her strength that the blade might cut
