But she was far too wise to press such arguments in her son's
present mood. They would have to drift for a while, she saw that
clearly, until she could gradually impress upon him how different
farming would be if he were his own master. In time, he might
even come to understand how much Martin needed her.

"Say you will," Bill, pleading, insistent, broke in on her train
of reflections, "I've always dreamed of this day, when we'd go
away, and now it's come. I can take care of you."

As he stood there, a glorious figure in his youthful
self-confidence, a turn of his head reminded her a second time of
Martin, recalling sharply the way her husband had looked the
night he told her of his love for the other Rose. He had been
bothered by no fine qualms about abandoning herself. She thought
of his final surrender of love to wisdom. It was only youth that
dared pursue happiness--to purchase delicious idleness by
gambling with death. Billy was her boy. His dreams and hopes
should be hers; her way of life, the one that gave him the most
joy. She would follow him, if need be, to the end of the earth.

"Very well, son," she said simply, her voice breaking over the
few words. "If a year from now you still feel like this, I'll do
as you wish."

"You don't know how I hate him," muttered the boy. "It's only
when I'm tramping in the woods, or in the middle of some book I
like that I can forgive him for living. No, mother, I don't mean
all that," he laughed, giving her a bear-like hug.