me sorely.

"She said to me last night, 'I fear somewhat, John, that the course I
have taken with you has greatly unfitted you for settling down here, as
we have done before you; but although I shall miss you sadly, I do not
blame myself for what I have done. I think myself, my son, that there are
higher lives than that spent in tilling the soil from boyhood to old age.
It is true the soil must be tilled. There must be ever hewers of wood and
drawers of water; but God has appointed for each his place, and I think,
my son, that you have that within you which would render the life with
which your father and grandfather have been well contented an irksome one
for you.

"'I have no fear that we shall be always separated. Your grandfather is
an old man, and when the Lord pleases to take him, your father and I will
be free to do as we choose, and can, if we like, dispose of this land and
quit this troubled country, and settle in England or elsewhere, near
where you may be. It is true that we shall get little for the land; for,
broad as are its acres, who will give much for a doubtful title? But
there is ample laid by for our old age, and I see not the sense of
labouring incessantly, as does your grandfather, merely to lay up stores
which you will never enjoy. Did I see any signs of a decrease in the
bitter animosity which parties feel towards each other here, I might
think differently; but there is no prospect of peace and goodwill
returning in your time, and therefore, no object in your father and I
toiling on for the rest of our lives, when the return of our labour will
be of little worth to you. Such being so, I do not regret that your
thoughts turn to the world of which you have read in books. The world is
but a secondary consideration to us, 'tis true, but I can see no special
goodness in a life of dull monotony.'"