In the chill of the February morning, ten long months after any of them had seen John, Mary stood next to Elizabeth on the back veranda and watch Uriah ride down the lane to check the horses in a far off pasture. The snow of the week before was melted, but he would need to break the ice on the pond so they could drink. Including the one Uriah rode, there were only sixteen horses left.

The night before, Mary had re­moved the foot of the statue and counted the remaining diamonds. She was comforted. Mahala's family would survive far beyond the time it would take for the new Americans to replenish the land. She watched Uriah turn up the road and was about to go back inside when he suddenly stopped, turned sharply and rode back toward her.

"MARY," Uriah shouted, his horse kicking up clods of dirt as he raced back down the lane. "MARY, HE IS HOME!"

Mary caught her breath and Elizabeth quickly slipped her arm around Mary's waist to steady her as they waited for Uriah to finish the distance.

"John is not well. Mister Moore says it is Malaria."

"He is alive?" Mary asked.

"Aye, my love, our son is alive." Then he raised his voice again. "Do you hear me Caleb? He is alive! My son is alive!" Uriah repeatedly it until all the windows and doors burst open.