The next day substantial houses of logs began to rise among the tall pine trees. John Conrad's suspicions about his second daughter proved to be true. Quiet Magdalena and the young man upon whom she had smiled announced that they, too, would build a house.
Then, when houses were built and logs were burning in the great chimneys, the Germans waited idly. Tar-making was not to begin, it seemed, until spring. Again John Conrad counseled patience.
"We are here, we cannot get away and, moreover, we have given our word. We are fed and clothed. In the spring things will be better. We cannot expect everything at once."
Young Conrad answered sharply.
"The men say that this land will never be good farming land, father. After the pine trees are cut, we shall have nothing. I would find that Schoharie which the Indians gave us. There is our home."
John Conrad shook his head.
"We must have patience," said he.
Slowly the winter passed. In the cold of January little John Frederick, so loved and cherished, died, and was the first of the colony to be buried in the new land.
"Now," said John Conrad, "it is our land, indeed."