He had learned much of the ways of men, and had undergone a schooling, rough of itself, but fitted to qualify him for the rebuffs of fortune to which we must all become accustomed.
What should he do?
This was the question which he often debated with himself, as was befitting in a sensible youth, who feared the danger of a mistake when standing at the "crossing of the ways." Somehow he felt a strong dislike to going back to New York.

He and Jim had met with such rough treatment there that the memory was not pleasant.

His yearning was to stay in the neighborhood of Bellemore.

The soothing flow of the beautiful Hudson, the picturesque, restful scenery, and, above all, the sweet, sad halo that lingered around the last abiding place of his friend, held him to the spot, which would ever be a sacred one to him.
He could not fancy the life of a farmer, though nothing would have pleased Mr.Pitcairn more than to have the strong, thoughtful boy prepare himself to become his successor in the management of the thrifty and well-kept place.

While Tom was in this state of incertitude, Providence opened the way, as it always does to the one who is waiting to accept the indication.
It was at the close of a mild day in early summer that he was sitting on the front porch of his new home, talking with Mr.Pitcairn and his wife, when a carriage stopped in front, and an elderly gentleman stepped down, tied his horse, and opened the gate.
"Why, that's Mr.Warmore," said Farmer Pitcairn to his wife, as he rose to greet his visitor, who walked briskly up the graveled path.
The appearance of the gentleman was prepossessing.