“Tomatoes. Bushels and bushels of tomatoes.” Why had he insisted, why repeated this word, even after Mrs. Swenson had said, “no tomatoes”? Mark had something in mind. What was it? She could not guess, but dared hope.

She recalled Mrs. Swenson’s words about the mysterious pair that had, with so much labor, erected this cabin, cleared this land, then left it all. “I wonder why they left?”

Then, “Seven golden candlesticks,” she murmured, “and a great copper kettle. We could use that kettle.” After that, in spite of her desire to be practical, she found herself searching the place from foundation to the loft. All she found was an ancient Dutch oven, rusted beyond reclaiming.

“All the same,” she thought, “it is strange what became of that copper kettle and—“ She did not allow the thought to finish itself. She had been about to think “gold.” She knew that in this land one must not dream—at least, not too much.