The spring sun of 1875 that tanned John Barclay's face gave it a leathery masklike appearance that the succeeding years never entirely wore off.

For he lived in the open by day, riding among his fields in three townships, watching the green carpet of March rise and begin to dimple in April, and billow in May.

And at night he worked in his office until the midnight cockcrow.

His back was bowed under a score of burdens.

But his greatest burden was the bank; for it gave him worry; and worry weighed upon him more than work.