“I don’t know as I’m called on to express what I think, Tom,” she replied with cold disapproval.  “I’ve always held that it’s a sinful thing to be dissatisfied with what God wills.  He put us here an’ I reckon if He hadn’t meant us to live here He’d have put us somewhere else.”

“I guess, Hannah—­” Tom Burton’s eyes for just a moment lighted into a humorous smile—­“we couldn’t hardly expect God to move us bodily.  But if we do go away from here you can have the comfort of figuring that if He hadn’t wanted us to go there we wouldn’t be there.”  He looked over at little Mary, who alone had not spoken.

“Daughter,” he suggested, “you’re too young to have to decide such things, but you might as well speak up, too.  It looks like the day has come for children to lay down the law to their elders.  What do you think about leavin’ the old home, the only home we’ve ever known?”

The child, surprised at being called into the council, dropped her eyes, then, suddenly glancing up and meeting Ham’s gaze, she felt a courage beyond her own, and stammered:  “I’d like to see the world and—­and—­well, just to see all the wonderful things—­and to know everything.”

Tom Burton’s lips stiffened.  “A long time ago a couple of people lived in the Garden of Eden,” he said shortly.  “And I reckon what Eve said wasn’t much diff’rent from that.  Well, they moved away all right.”

There was a long silence in the room, and the father at last broke it with his eyes fixed on his eldest son.

“Those great men you talk about, Ham—­” he spoke with deliberate gravity—­“them fellers you seem to think are sort of brothers of yours—­most of them came to times when they saw things topplin’ down all round ’em.  They sent your Napoleon to St. Helena an’ a lot of others didn’t do much better in the long run.  Julius Caesar was pretty great an’ pretty ambitious.  He fell.  There’s a heap to be said fer livin’ straight an’ simple.  We’re self-respectin’ men an’ women with clean blood in our veins that don’t have to bow down to no man.  We’ve lived honest an’ worked hard, but sometimes when spring comes on an’ I’m followin’ the plow an’ the blackbirds are followin’ me along the furrow, I feel like God ain’t so far away.  When they buries me out there amongst those I’ve loved an’ been true to, I reckon I’ll rest.”

“Your father,” the son reminded him, “wasn’t a young feller when Lincoln called for volunteers, but he didn’t stay here because he wanted to rest.  He went, an’ now he’s restin’ down there at Shiloh.  I want to answer my call.  I’m willin’ to take my chance of restin’ where death finds me.”

Outside, across the ice-locked lake and through the snow-burdened forest swept the wolf-like howl of the wind.

Inside, there was the silence of a deeply troubled indecision.  At last, Tom Burton said: