"No, sir, I think not."
"I don't know," said the boy, in a low voice. He led the way, and Marche followed him out of doors.
A gray light made plain the desolation of the scene, although the sun had not yet risen. To the south and west the sombre pine woods stretched away; eastward, a few last year's cornstalks stood, withered in the clearing, through which a rutted road ran down to the water.
"It isn't the finest farming land in the world, is it, Jim?" he said humorously.
"I haven't seen any other land," said the boy quietly.
"Don't you remember the Northern country at all?"
"No, sir—except Central Park."
"Oh, you were New-Yorkers?"
"Yes, sir. Father——" and he fell abruptly silent.