“It’s a right-hard thing to stake the welfare of a family on a boy’s notion of his own greatness—­a notion that ain’t never been tried out.  There’s just one thing you’ve convinced me of, and it’s this:  You may not be able to do anything worth-while in the world outside.  You may be a failure there, but I’m pretty sure, in your frame of mind, you’ll be a failure here.  The man that makes a fight here has got to have his heart in it an’ he’s got to love the soil.  That don’t fit your case!  I ain’t ready to admit yet that I ain’t the head of my own family.  I ain’t made up my mind yet what we’ll do.  Maybe we’ll stay right here an’ maybe we’ll go away.”  The father ran one hand wearily through the thick hair on his forehead and shook his head.  “I’ve heard you out, an’ we’ll all think on it an’ dream on it.  I’ve found right often when a feller’s perplexed an’ can’t reach a conclusion, he goes to sleep an’ wakes up with a clearer judgment.  Once a mistake is made, it can’t be unmade; but I don’t want you to think that I ain’t ponderin’ this question.”

Ahead of him Ham saw Paul and Mary slip up the stairway and his aunt rise, with the stiff disapproval of silence, and leave the room.  He himself remained only a few minutes longer and then with a low-voiced good-night he pressed his father’s hand, and felt the grip of stern affection on his own.  He took up and lighted the small lamp that was to light him to bed, and as he climbed the boxed-in stairway, the shadows wavered on the walls at each side, and he heard the wail of the wind around the eaves.

When he set the lamp down and began undressing he realized for the first time the gnawing weariness of muscles that the day had taxed with chores and tramping.  Tomorrow morning he must rise while the windows still let in only the chilling gray of dawn.  Yet he stopped with half his clothes removed, and, going to an improvised shelf in the corner, took down a battered volume.  It was not until the lamp warned him of the spent hours with its dying sputter that he laid aside the resonant sentences in which Carlyle had been talking to him of heroes and their worship.  In another room across the hall he had heard stirrings for an hour after the silence of sleep had fallen on the rest of the house.

There Mary, unable to compose herself at once, had been snipping at the pattern of a gown with which, in her fancy, she was to charm those men who did not wear lumbermen’s socks and neglect their razors.  But now even Mary was asleep.  It was cold in the room, and outside the world was bitter, but Ham was far from sleep.  In his mind still worked and seethed the unresting ferment which had become a torment.  The annals of the great had fired him to passion.  The littleness of his room and of his life stifled him.  He wanted to breathe freer, and, drawing on his mackinaw, he tiptoed noiselessly down the stairs and let himself out into the night.

There he found a frozen world, shut in by low-drifting clouds and swallowed in a smother of darkness.  Even the snow was gray, but at least there he could look out across space.