At another time, I might have spent these moments in fond remembrance of my childhood on Arden Farm, recalling the games and mischief I entered into with my brothers and sisters, and the wise and gentle care of my loving parents. But other, less pleasant memories had been forged since those happier days, and now my concerns for the welfare of my one surviving brother kept all other thoughts from me. Noah stood on the porch, solemn-faced, looking forlorn as he watched me go. It troubled me to see him there; Noah had never concerned himself overmuch with formal leave-takings—only a year ago, he would have all but pushed me out the door, anxious to return to his work in the apple orchards. Upon our father’s death six months ago, Noah had inherited Arden Farm. From childhood, we had all of us known that Noah would one day own this land, and the house upon it. The eldest sons of generation upon generation of Ardens before him had worked in these same orchards.
