The reading of Martin Nichols's last will and testament took place in the library, a small, shabby, plastered room with only a few worn Methodist volumes on the hand-hewn wooden shelves. A fire had been built, but it barely warmed the damp and drafty room. There was no carpet to cover the plank floor. Birney sat at a small, carved French wooden table, his papers before him. The four children took seats, none close to Birney or near to each other.

Cecilia would be most apt to fly off and storm dreadfully, Birney guessed. Or else Martin, who had not dressed or shaved for the occasion. Martin drank too much and had none of his father's religion to ballast against barbarism. Brady, just a child, would not understand much. He would monkey the others. Thomas, Birney could not judge. The young man was intelligent, but not sensible.

The will began with a prologue Nichols had dictated, testifying to his lifelong faith in God and warning his children to follow in this path. The children's stiff, wary appearances quickly degenerated into slouches and bored expressions. They had heard the old man's religion countless times.

Birney paused, cleared his throat, and went on to read the division of property. Cecilia, known as Sis, inherited all the china, cutlery, crystal, and linens. She also received a horse and carriage of her choice from the stock on hand, and a sum of one thousand dollars. The rest of the plantation—land, stock, buildings—was to be divided between the three brothers, except that Brady, the youngest, was to have his share held in trust by Martin, Jr., until Brady reached the age of twenty-one. The land was not to be sold or divided for twenty years, though by common agreement one of the brothers could buy out the share ...