"An' yet maybe if we stay here we'll lose 'em all." Tom Burton was
making a decided effort to hold his voice steady.

"Don't--don't, Tom," protested the woman.

"When you married me, Elizabeth," he went on with the air of one
resolved to take full account, "I reckon you could have done a good deal
better, it's been a long fight here an' a hard one."

"I've been happy," she told him.

"Your hand was right slim then, an' now it's hard from work. To me,
there ain't no other hand as beautiful, mother, but there's no use
denying that we can't hold out much longer, unless the children stand by
an' help us."

"They will, Tom. They will. Ham may talk, but he won't desert."

"I know that, but the question is, have we got the right to hold them
here? Is Ham raving, or is he right? That's the question you an' me
have got to decide, mother."

"Do you think, Tom," she demanded, rising and anxiously looking at him,
"do you think that even if we had all the things money could give
us--we'd be any happier in the long run? Life's been hard with us, but
it's always been wholesome."

"I'm contented, mother, but what does well enough for old blood may not
satisfy the young. It ain't the first time I've thought about this