men, wasting their time, putting
disturbing ideas into their minds. He was a consummate nuisance. And as
usual I had much to do and to think of, and I spent lonely evenings when
I did not see Reverdy and Sarah or the old fiddler.

It was now left to me to institute a partition suit to divide the land
between me and Fortescue. Mr. Brooks managed this admirably for me.
There was danger that Fortescue might compel a sale of the whole farm
and a division of the proceeds. There was my house, the attractive
improvements around it, bright to the envious eye. Fortescue only had
the hut. But at last acres were set off to him. I kept my house and the
remainder of the land. And this was ended.

But nevertheless I thought more and more of selling the farm, of moving
to Chicago. Fortescue was an impelling cause to this step. I should in
that event leave Reverdy and Sarah and little Amos. I should see less of
Douglas. But I began to be desperately annoyed by my situation. I could
not wholly live down the killing of Lamborn. There was the memory of
Zoe. There was now Fortescue. And in Chicago there was Abigail, to whom
I was writing. She had become a very close friend. She was urging me
constantly to take up my residence in Chicago. But I could not leave
without selling the land. I did not wish to sacrifice it. I did not
think it wise to rent it. Indeed I could not rent it and derive the same
income from it that I could by working it myself. I had not yet found a
purchaser who would pay what it was worth.

It was now the autumn of 1840. Sarah had two children beside little
Amos, a boy born in August whom they had named Jonas. Dorothy had come
from Nashville to help Sarah with the heavy household burdens that were
now upon her.

I saw a good deal of Dorothy at Reverdy's; she came to my house on
occasions when I entertained. She was as lovely as ever, but she did not
have Abigail's mind. She was luxurious in her temperament, aristocratic
in her outlook and tastes. She did not stimulate me as Abigail did, but
she involved my emotional nature more powerfully. Something of
resentment fortified my present neutral attitude toward her. Why, after
all, need Zoe have affected her so profoundly? Perhaps my own thinking
was toughened by my experiences. I had killed a man for Zoe; I had been
through a trial with Fortescue. Surely if there had been any bloom on me
it had been rubbed off. Why had not Dorothy seen in me a practical,
courageous he