But his long martyrdom went on, the summer was growing old, with the
work of planting and cultivating almost done and the harvest soon to
follow, and whatever his feelings may have been he had never flinched a
single time. Nourished by his great labors the Ware farm far surpassed
all others, and the pride of John Ware grew. He also grew more exacting
with his pride, and this quality brought on the crisis.
Henry was building a fence one particularly hot afternoon, and his
father coming by, cool and fresh, found fault with his work, chiefly to
show his authority, because the work was not badly done--Mr. Ware was a
good man, but like other good men he had a rare fault-finding impulse.
The voices in the woods had been calling very loudly that day and
Henry's temper suddenly flashed into a flame. But he did not give way to
any external outburst of passion, speaking in a level, measured voice.
"I am sorry you do not like it," he said, "because it is the last work I
am going to do here."
"Why--what do you mean?" exclaimed his father in astonishment.
"I am done," replied Henry in his firm tones, and dropping the fence
rail that he held he walked to the house, every nerve in him thrilling
with expectation of the pleasure that was to come.
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