In Abel's dreams another house was already rising in the fair green meadow beyond the mill-race.

He had consecrated a strip of giant pine to this purpose, and often, while he lingered in the door of his mill, he felt himself battling against the desire to take down his axe and strike his first blow toward the building of Molly's home.

His mother might nag at him about Molly now, but let them be married, he told himself, with sanguine masculine assurance, and both women would reconcile themselves to a situation that neither could amend.

Before the immediate ache of his longing for the girl, all other considerations evaporated to thin air.

He would rather be unhappy with her, he thought passionately, than give her up! "Abel, if you don't stop mopin' out thar an' come along in, I'll clear off the dishes!" called his mother again in her rasping voice which sounded as if she were choking in a perpetual spasm of moral indignation.
Jerking his shoulders slightly in an unspoken protest, Abel turned and entered the kitchen, where Sarah Revercomb--tall, spare and commanding--was preparing two bowls of mush for the aged people, who could eat only soft food and complained bitterly while eating that.