So the stranger slipped over unobserved and with a courtier’s smile raised a tiny hand to his lips.

“I am a good prophet,” he assured her, and now he let the suppressed merriment dance at will in his pupils, “but don’t forget that a queen’s queenliest necessity is—­kindness.”

And so, while Mrs. Burton and the elderly aunt busied themselves over the stove and the father napped restlessly, the sleeping thing that had not heretofore given warning was ripening for its outburst.

When the evening meal was finished and the family sat listening to the stranger’s talk, Thomas Burton suddenly demanded:  “Are they still quittin’ over your way?”

Young Edwardes nodded.

“Except for one or two shiftless fellows like myself,” he responded, “my immediate section is deserted.  A half-dozen families moved out this fall.  The general verdict seems to be that the fight’s not worth while.”

Tom Burton growled deeply.  “The country mayn’t be much,” he grudgingly admitted, “but how do these fellers that are leavin’ all they own behind ’em expect to better themselves?  Ain’t a few rocky acres better’n none at all?  That’s what I asks ’em and they ain’t got no answer to give me.  Ain’t a little bit better than nothin’ whatsoever?”

The visitor did not immediately reply.  He seemed to be reflecting, and, when his answer came, Ham straightened himself in his seat and sat rigid as if struggling to fix a seal on his own lips and remain a silent listener.

“Perhaps so and perhaps not,” suggested Edwardes.  “The open sea doesn’t offer much prospect in a storm, but it may be better than a sinking ship.”

Tom Burton’s eyes lighted with the same stubborn glint that had given his Pilgrim forefathers kinship with the granite of their shores.

“My ancestors have lived here since they ran the Indians out,” he said quietly.  “They’re buried here an’ they fought for this country an’ won it.  I guess what they bled for is worth holdin’.”

“Your forefathers fought for the whole land, not only this section of it,” suggested Edwardes mildly.  “Right here the acres are stony and unproductive.  You can’t hope to compete with the farmer whose crops grow near arteries of transportation.”

“All we need is roads—­an’ aqueducts—­an’ some day they’ll come.”

“Perhaps,” admitted the younger man.  “The question is how many can hold out till then?”

Tom Burton looked up and for an instant his eyes blazed.  “Well, for one, I can!  By God, I don’t mean to be run away from my home by a panicky notion of hard times.  I can stay here an’ fight to a finish—­an’ when I’m licked, my boys can go on fightin’.”