"Thank you," said Ellen shortly.
To Matthew life was intensely satisfactory. Along with love for the land he had been endowed with a farmer's good judgment. The early Pennsylvania Germans had selected with unerring instinct the thickly wooded limestone country, leaving to their Scotch-Irish neighbors the poorer and more easily cultivated soil. To Matthew it seemed that his deep fields had qualities which were almost human; they looked to him for proper cultivation and nourishment as they looked to God for rain.
His labors were interrupted only by the time necessary for meals and sleep. When winter came, the rebuilding of the fences occupied him whenever it was possible to be out of doors. On snowy and rainy days he worked in the barn, repairing partitions, mending harness, and planning for the future. He wrote down in a notebook all his plans; he drew a map of the farm and hung it on the wall; he dreamed and meditated about springing corn and golden wheat. Mind and body were at rest, and all was as it should be in a world which had hitherto been trying.
When Ellen appeared one afternoon in December in the barn chamber to make once more her foolish request about school, he answered her by commending her for her good behavior. He seemed to himself to be at least twenty years older than Ellen in experience and wisdom.
"Millie and I were saying yesterday how well you accommodated yourself to life as it is. It will soon be even better."
But Ellen had not come to hear compliments or to interpret cryptic remarks.
"Do you mean I can't go?"
"Soon you won't want to go."
"I shall always want to go," insisted unreasonable Ellen.