“What woman?” demanded Eliot coldly.

Tom gave the girl’s name and the tavern where she worked. “I was hoping,” he said, “that you would help us.”

By noon the next day, Eliot had discovered enough. The girl was nothing less than a common whore. Yes, she had told him, she’d be glad to marry Tom, and be saved, and live here in Boston no matter how humbly. For anything was better than her present, fallen condition. Though Eliot saw at once that this might be a hoax, he did not see the humor of it. Nor did it matter whether the thing was true or not. Clearly Tom was prepared to make trouble, and embarrass him. Alternatively, Eliot assumed, Tom would be prepared to leave—for a price. That evening they spoke again.

The interview was conducted in the spirit of mournfulness in which Eliot seemed to specialize. It took place in the small, square room he used as an office. On the desk between them was an inkwell, a Bible, a book of law, a paper cutter and a little pine box containing a newly minted silver dollar.

The offer Eliot made was the inheritance that Adam Master had left for his younger son if, and only if, he showed evidence that he had joined the community of the godly. With perfect truth, Eliot informed his brother: “I am disobeying our father by giving you this.”

“Blessed are the merciful,” said Tom, solemnly.

“You refuse to return to England?”

“I do.”

“This letter, then, will give you credit with a merchant in Hartford, Connecticut. They are more tolerant,” Eliot said drily, “of people like you down there. The condition is that you are never, ever to return to Massachusetts. Not even for a day.”

“In the Gospels, the Prodigal Son returned and was welcomed,” Tom remarked pleasantly.

“He returned once, as you have already done. Not twice.”

“I shall need money for the journey. Your letter gives me nothing until I reach Hartford.”

“Will that be enough?” Eliot handed him a quantity of wampum and a purse containing several shillings. Some of those shillings would pay the girl in the tavern and the rest, Tom reckoned, would be enough for his journey.

“Thank you.”

“I fear for your soul.”

“I know.”

“Swear that you will not return.”

“I swear.”

“I shall pray for you,” his brother added, though evidently without much conviction it would do any good.

Tom rode away early the next morning. Before he left the house, he slipped into his brother’s office, and stole the silver dollar in the box. Just to annoy him.

He had taken his time, riding westward across Massachusetts, staying at farms along the way. When he came to the Connecticut River, he should have turned south. That would have brought him to Hartford. But it irked him to take orders from his brother, and so, for no particular reason, he had continued westward for a few days. He was in no hurry. The money, which he kept in a small satchel, would last him a while. He’d always heard that the great North River was a noble sight. Perhaps he’d go as far as that before turning back to Hartford.