"I am glad of it. Well keep ready; — you'll go yet one of these days — the time will come. You must see if you can't be contented to keep at home a spell. We'll shove you off by and by."
Neither party very well satisfied with the decision, but there was no more to be said.
To keep at home was plain enough; to be contented was another matter. Rufus joined again in the farm concerns; the well-worn Little River broadcloth was exchanged for homespun; and Winthrop's plough, and hoe, and axe, were mated again as in former time they used to be. This at least was greatly enjoyed by the brothers. There was a constant and lively correspondence between them, on all matters of interest, past, present, and future, and on all matters of speculation attainable by either mind; and though judgments and likings were often much at variance, and the issues, to the same argument, were not always the same with each; on one point, the delight of communication, they were always at one. Clearly Rufus had no love for the axe, nor for the scythe, but he could endure both while talking with Winthrop; though many a time it would happen that axe and scythe would be lost in the interest of other things; and leaning on his snathe, or flinging his axe into a cut, Rufus would stand to argue, or demonstrate, or urge, somewhat just then possessing all his faculties; till a quiet reminder of his brother's would set him to laughing and to work again; and sweetly moved the scythes through the grass, and cheerily rung the axes, for the winrows were side by side and the ringing answered from tree to tree. And the inside of home gave Rufus pleasure too. Yet there were often times, — when talk was at a standstill, and mother's "good things" were not on the table, with a string of happy faces round it, and neither axe nor scythe kept him from a present feeling of inaction, — that the shadow reappeared on Rufus's brow. He would sit in the chimney corner, looking far down into the hearth-stones, or walk moodily up and down the floor, behind the backs of the other people, with a face that seemed to belong to some waste corner of society.
"My son," said Mrs. Landholm, one evening when Mr. Landholm was out and the little ones in bed, — "what makes you wear such a sober face?"
"Nothing, mother, — only that I am doing nothing."
"Are you sure of that? Your father was saying that he never saw anybody sow broadcast with a finer hand — he said you had done a grand day's work to day."
An impatiently drawn breath was the answer.
"Rufus, nobody is doing nothing who is doing all that God gives him leave to do."
"No mother — and nobody ever will do much who does not hold that leave is given him to make of himself the utmost that he can."
"And what is that?" she said quietly.