But the Lord did not seem to be willing, and one spring He caused a late frost in June to kill most of the seed, and a drouth in July and August to wither what was left, and starvation stared in the faces of the widow and her son.  At this time, Isaac began to “keep company,” and to talk of getting married in the next decade.  He was twenty-two, and had a faithful, saving disposition, when there was anything to save.  And whether he became engaged because there was nothing but love to harvest, or whether, woman-like, Abbie Faxon loved him better than she did her other suitors because of his poverty and misery, and was willing to tell him so, I cannot pretend to decide.  At any rate, Isaac brought Abbie one afternoon from the village, three miles below, and the two women kissed and wept, and Isaac went out and stood alone facing the view; the apple in his throat rose and fell, and great tears blinded his sight.

We can make no hero of Isaac, for he was none.  His heart was as simple and as clean as a pebble in a brook.  Country vices had not smirched him.  He had a mind only for his mother, and the farm, and earning a living—­and a heart for Abbie.  Great thoughts did not invade his head.  But this afternoon, as he stood there on the gray rock, his heart bursting with his happiness, which was made perfect by his mother’s blessing, an apprehension for the future—­bitter, breathless, began to arouse him.  The promise of the horizon suddenly became revealed to him.  The distant line of green, now bold, now sinuous, now uncertain, had never asked him questions before, had never exasperated him with a meaning.

But now he saw the tips of spires flecking the verdure of the far-off valleys.  He saw the hurrying smoke of a locomotive.  He saw with awakening vision, starting from that dead farm of his, the region of trade and life.  A film had fallen from his eyes.  The energetic arrow of love had touched his ambition, and his round, rosy face became indented with lines of resolve.  He turned and walked with a new tread into the house.

“Mother!  Abbie!” he blurted out, “I’m going away.  I’m going to Boston.”  He stopped and stammered as he saw the horror-stricken faces before him.

“Lord a-mercy!”

“Ikey!  Air you teched?”

“No,” he resumed stoutly, “I be’ant.  There’s Dan Prentiss—­he went—­see what he done; and Uncle Bill, he—­”

“We hain’t heard nothing from your Uncle Bill since he sot out.  That was twelve years ago, the spring your father built them three feet on the shed.”  Mrs. Masters spoke firmly.

“Never mind, mother, I’m going to Boston, and I will come back.  I’m going to earn my livin’.  I’m strong and willin’, and as able as Dan Prentiss.  Ye needn’t be scared, I ain’t going yet.  I’ll finish up the fall work fust.  I’m going for the winter anyway, and Abbie’ll come an’ live with you, mother—­won’t you, Abbie, dear?  She’s the only mother you’ve got now.  Your folks can spare you.”