It was when she was cleaning the room in the spring that she found the Blackstone tucked away between a homemade bookshelf and the wall.

“John,” Abbie said to him, “something is on your mind. What is it? Won’t you tell Mother?”

She had to work to get it out of him. And then, like one whose resistance had snapped, he turned on her, “It’s working on this darned farm all my life. I hate it, I tell you.” He had the fury of a reserved person who stores up his grievances until one exploding moment. It reminded Abbie of the few outbursts of Will during their years together.

Abbie put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. “What do you want to do?”

“Study law.” And Will had said that the Deals were always for the land. “I think of it all day and then dream it. And I’m going to, some day.”

That was like Will, too, Abbie thought,—to think a thing over for a long time and then come to an irrevocable decision.

“But I know what you’ll say to that.” He spoke almost sullenly.

It hurt Abbie so, to have him turn on her that way.

“I’m not unsympathetic, John. We’ll have to plan some way it can be done if you feel that way.”

“Yes, and have you mad and disappointed about it.” Why, oh why, did children say things to hurt one?

“No, I’ll not be mad,” she controlled her trembling lips, “and I’m not disappointed. I’m proud of your desire, John. For just a few minutes I was . . . was confused.”

“Then promise me you’ll sell the place and take the two girls and move into town.”

“No, John,” Abbie said with dignity. “I’ll not sell. Land is low, . . . and last year’s crops so poor . . . No, it’s my place and I’m going to stay on it. We’ll manage, somehow.”

“Then that settles it. I’ll stay too.”

For long weeks Abbie labored with him. He was such a good boy, so clean and energetic, and so stubborn. Then, when Abbie had argued over and over again how she could manage by renting part of the acreage to Oscar Lutz on shares, and hiring Pete Reinmueller for the part of the work she could not do herself, John went away to the University in the fall, with his one suit, a few dollars in his pocket, and the promise of two jobs,—caring for a professor’s fires and a doctor’s horses.

Isabelle entered Weeping Water Academy that fall, doing part-time work in the minister’s family for her board. And not once did either she or John ever realize how many times their mother put on an old coat and felt hat of their father’s and went out to some of the heavy work herself. Isabelle began immediately to make splendid progress in music under a good teacher from the East. “It’s her voice, though, that’s going to count,” the instructor said. “We must watch it and guard it.”