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Lucinda’s womb. He was too kind to dwell upon his own good fortune. “Going to farm again, John?” he asked.
    “No,” John MacBain said. “I’m thinking of moving away—take Molly to Wheeling, likely, and get me a job in the railroads. Railroads are the coming thing in the state, I hear. The city’ll give Molly life, I figure. It’s hard on her just fussing around an empty house.”
    “I hear about the railroads, too—” Pierce said. He did not want to talk about Molly.
    “Or mining,” John MacBain said moodily. “There’s coal mines opening toward the north of the state. I want to do something I never did before—start out fresh.”
    “We’ll miss you for neighbors,” Pierce said.
    “I’ll rent you the land but I shan’t sell the house,” John said. “I was born in it and so was my father. We’ll be back and forth, likely—summers, anyway.”
    “That’s good,” Pierce said.
    The bleakness in John’s eyes was a grey wall between them. He felt the constant knowledge of impatience that haunted them, and unable to think of further talk, he mounted his horse again.
    “Well, see you again, John. Let me know before you go. Lucinda will want you both over for dinner.”
    “It’ll be a while yet,” John said.
    Pierce rode away, feeling the envy in John MacBain’s eyes burn into his back. War was cruel and unjust—as cruel and unjust as God, who gave down rain on the good and evil. He resolved that as little as possible would he consider anything except the joy of life itself, of food and sleep and riding and hunting, of wine and children and sunshine and earth and the seasons. He would live for himself and his own, “so help me God,” he thought, “from now until I die.” He hardened his heart toward John MacBain and toward every maimed and wounded creature, and was arrogantly proud that he was whole.
    It was nearly one o’clock when he rounded the turn of the road and cantered up the avenue of oaks that led to the house. He dismounted and tossed the reins to Jake who came running out to meet him.
    “She’s lathered, you see,” he reminded him.
    “I’ll rub her down good,” Jake said.
    Pierce mounted the steps of his house and took satisfaction in the mended terrace and the newly painted porches. He owed money everywhere, even for the fresh white paint on the house, but men trusted him and Malvern. Their confidence was in tomorrow, and tomorrow would come. He leaped up the last steps and met his brother coming down the stairs into the hall, and was struck again, as he continually was, with Tom’s good looks. The youthful sallowness and slimness were gone. He had actually grown taller this last year.
    “Tom, you should have ridden out with me this morning!” he shouted. “God, how the land is producing!”
    Tom smiled. “You should have called me, Pierce,” he replied. “I found you gone when I came down for breakfast. Bettina said you’d been gone an hour.”
    “Oh well, I’ll let you be an invalid another month or two,” Pierce said indulgently. “Where’s Luce and the younguns? I’m starved clean to the bottom of me.”
    “Lucinda has been sitting in the summerhouse,” Tom replied. He stood leaning against the door jamb. “Here comes Bettina with the children.”
    Pierce turned and saw Bettina walking across the green lawns. She held a book in her hands, and the two boys were tugging at it. She stopped, and dropping on her knees she opened it, and they pored over it together.
    “Queer how those two girls know their books,” he said. “I wonder who taught them.”
    Tom did not answer and Pierce looked at him and saw what made him aghast. He had been trying not to think of it—but now Tom was well and it had better be said. Tom—Bettina! He felt suddenly sick.
    “Reckon I’ll go and wash,” he said. “If you see Luce, tell her I’ll go straight to the dining room.”
    “All right—” Tom’s voice was dreaming, and Pierce mounted the stairs on tiptoe. Did