She put herself in the background, genuinely anxious to do all she could to make endurable her immutable decree. Life to her was like a quilt made up of great, glowing patches, each patch an achievement; and if the weaving together of the patches brought with it pricks of pain they were essential to the completed whole. But Tom not only objected to the pricking, but had his own ideas as to the color and fabric of his quilt.
The next day found him with Hertha two miles down the river. It had been very warm in the pine country, and they had followed the open stream.
"I's gwine the way they all go," Tom said meditatively, looking to the north. "The brooks flow to the rivers and the rivers to the sea. Don't you want to go too?"
"I? No, indeed."
"I've been thinking, Sister, it must be mighty slow here fer you; and when I'm gone it'll be worse. Why don't you settle in the city this winter and go out to work?"
At Merryvale the city always meant the port, twenty-five miles away.
"What a strange notion, Tom. I'd be lonesome there."
"Oh, there'd be lots to do. Church every Sunday, and picnics, and excursions. You're so pretty, you'd be the best liked girl in the place."
Hertha laughed. "Now, don't you begin to plan for me! I like it right where I am at home."
"Most girls marry," Tom remarked after a few moments, "and so do most fellers. The boys round here ain't your kind. I don't wonder you don't notice 'em. But they's fine chaps down there," pointing down the stream, "lawyers, and doctors and teachers."