handsome striped carpet woven by the hands now folded in their rest. The little square window, opened wide on its hinges, revealed the thickness of the wall of the miller's "stun house," and suggested the summer coolness and winter warmth there which were Mr. Altman's boast whenever the new house, Araminta's unfulfilled dream, was talked about. By that window Barbara sat; through it came the odors of dear old-fashioned flowers; and with the odors seemed to come the blended hues of clematis and morningglories, white, purple, pink, and blue. The question revolving in her mind was still revolving when, suddenly looking up from her work, Barbara saw Bartholomew approaching the house. To give him an instant's pleasure she called to him to break a spray of morning-glory vine for her, and stretched her hand through the window to take it.

He smiled as he complied with her wish, laid the vine-branch in her hand, called her attention to the fact that it was covered with buds which would have opened in the morning, and went his way.

A few minutes passed, and there was a sound of voices in the yard and near the window. Barbara looked up again and saw Joseph and Bartholomew together outside. Master and man? Not quite. Master and master, perhaps. Barbara looked twice, and thought she understood why, when she first came to the house, she had felt an insecurity, a disturbance, which went deeper seeking its cause than the not well-understood duties, and the fact that a dying woman was in her care.

Was it a pitiful thought for the poor flowers cheated of their day that made her go to the shut-up parlor and bring thence the pretty china vase for which Aunt Araminta had exchanged Uncle Joshua's great-coat three years ago? Surely then she should not have been followed from the darkened room, which was to her as Aunt Araminta's tomb, by an accusing phantom!

When Bartholomew came in to tea he saw the vine-branch in the centre

of the table, saw the china vase, and recognized it as one of Aunt Araminta's treasures. So did Joseph; so did the miller. Did Barbara suddenly become conscious that they were all thinking thoughts as her eyes ran round the little circle, and she saw what looked like a shadow on the brown face of giant Joseph, and an unmistakable smile in the pleasant gray eyes of Bartholomew, and the softening light of a tender memory diffusing itself over the old visage, the gray hairs, and the wrinkles of Miller Altman? Possibly, for she began to talk, and soon had drawn mankind to the consideration of this agitating question, What were the garden's prospects as long as the hens and chickens were at liberty to go over and under and between the pickets at any hour of the day?

After tea, when her quick feet and nimble fingers had disposed of the tea things and she sat again by the window and resumed the family mending,

Here were "the boys," Joseph and Bartholomew; but Joseph certainly stood in need of none of the ordinary sources of human comfort; he could at any moment take up the world on his back and go out in search of other conditions of existence. No sentimental compunctions would ever interfere with the conduct of his life. As to Bartholomew, of whom nobody seemed to take thought, she had certainly no call to consider whether she might be useful to him. Should she, then, go back to Churchill? Thirty times at least, as I said, the question had come back to Barbara. She was now beginning to feel, with a sense of injury sustained, that the home people ought to decide the question for her. If she had duties, had not they? Why did they not insist on her coming, instead of saying, as her mother had said in the letter lying in her work-basket a week old now, "If you think that you are necessary to poor Uncle's comfort in his loneliness, dear child, we do not object to your staying with him through the summer, as you say that you feel you must."

She did, of course, see that she must; but then-but then! O, if well-disposed mortals could but widen their sphere and control all circumstances, what a noble exhibit they would make! Is it true that the race of marble gods and heroes is in no wise to be confounded with the race of men that produced them? Must the kingdom of heaven still be taken by violence, Barbara?

At the close of a sultry afternoon on the first of June, she sat in the newly whitewashed sitting-room, thinking her one tiresome, perplexing thought, and moreover of the "boys."

The boys somehow compelled her to take thought of them. If Joseph was not a tyrant, it was because out of his elements early training could not develop one; and if Bartholomew was not an underling, it was for the reason that Nature would not permit him to become one. Barbara did not see that

Joseph was a tyrant, perhaps, but that he was "born to rule"; Bartholomew, to her observation, did not come under the servile distinction, possibly, but could she help perceiving that if really "crazy on wheels," as Joseph said and all admitted, the worst place for him was the miller's house. For there was perpetual antagonism between the young men, and it had perpetual display; and in every time of conflict the old man kept close to the wall.

Yet why should this antagonism disturb her? Was this one of the burdens of human nature which the spectator is not merely to behold, but to lift up and bear also on his own shoulders? Had she a call to become here in her uncle's house a peacemaker between two lives, neither of which a year ago could have found excuse to hope for a moment's notice of her? What good would be accomplished, though she kept on saying forever, "Poor Bartholomew "? Poor Bartholomew ! Was there really anything to pity? If he did not like the service in which he was engaged, had he not the manliness to leave it? What though Uncle Joshua did rely upon him for the steady performance of duties, his own and also those that Joseph neglected; he was not a bond servant, he was of age, he could choose another employer if he wished to do so. Indeed, was it not his duty to look for another? Barbara had often pondered this question with others, and she now began to see that she might hint to Joseph that possibly the misunderstanding between him and Bartholomew might some day lead to Bartholomew's departure. Her utmost duty in this direction would then certainly be performed. But it almost took her breath away to think of it. Why? Because Joseph was Joseph. Then she was afraid of him? Barbara afraid of Joseph !

The little room in which she sat thinking was a model in its way. It had its corner cupboards, and its high mantle painted blue, its fire-board covered with pretty flowered paper like that on the best room walls, and its

handsome striped carpet woven by the hands now folded in their rest. The little square window, opened wide on its hinges, revealed the thickness of the wall of the miller's "stun house," and suggested the summer coolness and winter warmth there which were Mr. Altman's boast whenever the new house, Araminta's unfulfilled dream, was talked about. By that window Barbara sat; through it came the odors of dear old-fashioned flowers; and with the odors seemed to come the blended hues of clematis and morningglories, white, purple, pink, and blue. The question revolving in her mind was still revolving when, suddenly looking up from her work, Barbara saw Bartholomew approaching the house. To give him an instant's pleasure she called to him to break a spray of morning-glory vine for her, and stretched her hand through the window to take it.

He smiled as he complied with her wish, laid the vine-branch in her hand, called her attention to the fact that it was covered with buds which would have opened in the morning, and went his way.

A few minutes passed, and there was a sound of voices in the yard and near the window. Barbara looked up again and saw Joseph and Bartholomew together outside. Master and man? Not quite. Master and master, perhaps. Barbara looked twice, and thought she understood why, when she first came to the house, she had felt an insecurity, a disturbance, which went deeper seeking its cause than the not well-understood duties, and the fact that a dying woman was in her care.

Was it a pitiful thought for the poor flowers cheated of their day that made her go to the shut-up parlor and bring thence the pretty china vase for which Aunt Araminta had exchanged Uncle Joshua's great-coat three years ago? Surely then she should not have been followed from the darkened room, which was to her as Aunt Araminta's tomb, by an accusing phantom!

When Bartholomew came in to tea he saw the vine-branch in the centre

of the table, saw the china vase, and recognized it as one of Aunt Araminta's treasures. So did Joseph; so did the miller. Did Barbara suddenly become conscious that they were all thinking thoughts as her eyes ran round the little circle, and she saw what looked like a shadow on the brown face of giant Joseph, and an unmistakable smile in the pleasant gray eyes of Bartholomew, and the softening light of a tender memory diffusing itself over the old visage, the gray hairs, and the wrinkles of Miller Altman? Possibly, for she began to talk, and soon had drawn mankind to the consideration of this agitating question, What were the garden's prospects as long as the hens and chickens were at liberty to go over and under and between the pickets at any hour of the day?

After tea, when her quick feet and nimble fingers had disposed of the tea things and she sat again by the window and resumed the family mending,

- for it was Friday and the week's washing had been delayed by rains, and industrious hands alone could accomplish the accustomed work by Saturday, she was all at once seized by an impulse that made her drop her work and hasten from the house. She had heard an irresistible summons, - there was nothing supernatural in it, the voice of the red light, equal to Alpglow for color, on the wall opposite to her. Time enough, it said, for patching and darning when those lovely tints shall all have perished from the sky, and fields and woods have retired into darkness.

Though it was not an attractive region in which Mr. Altman's house stood, it had attractive points - to those who could see them. The swift little race on whose banks the mill was built was richly adorned with lily pads above the dam, and, in the season, with beautiful white lilies; and there were willows below, whose branches touched the waters and were swayed by the swift current, and this

made them look as if, were it possible, they would be gay and lively.

Then there was no end of ferns along the shady banks. Barbara knew the path by the stream well; she had often walked in it, and Nature and she were on the friendliest terms. Going forth from the house now, it was to see her friend in her glory, and the act showed her courteous spirit. But could she find anywhere, in field or wood, a key to old Sphynx Duty's secret?

She was walking down the lane, when Bartholomew appeared in the door of the mill. She saw him looking up at the warm blue sky, covered in the west with soft bright pink cloudlets, and in the north and south sustained as it were by pillars of fire; and, before he observed her, she said, "How divine it can be, even here!"

At that Bartholomew looked down. "You have a poor opinion of us," he said. "We have only the sky and the meadows, but I thought Nature was able to hold her own anywhere."

A little surprised by the remark, Barbara answered, “That may be. She makes me feel, though, that I have very little regard for her, sometimes."

"Is that when you shut yourself in the back room and give yourself up to mending old clothes? I wonder you can stand it!"

"You do not understand me. When I think of the Peaks all down with fever and ague just because they came into the country to make her acquaintance, that sets me wondering whether Nature is just and kind."

"Peak should have known better than to build in a swamp. I might as well take a ride on the mill-wheel in order to learn the action."

Do not suppose that Bartholomew used this illustration because it was handiest. No; he wanted, had long wanted, to talk to Barbara about WHEELS, about his wheel, and he had nearly despaired of an opportunity.

The way she answered him brought such a glow into his face that he looked verily transfigured.

"I want to hear about that wonderful piece of work of yours," said she. "You and Joseph have jested about it so often, that I begin to think there is nothing in it."

What humiliations were buried deep as Herculaneum by these words! She had not, then, heard and seen the insults; she had taken all the sharpshooting, cross-firing, tripping up and knocking down which, figuratively speaking, had occurred in the skirmishes between himself and Joseph, merely for jesting!

"I can't tell you all I think is in it," said he. "It would 'nt be very wise." Why not?"

66

"I may be mistaken.”

"Let us take it for granted that you 're not," she said, and the speech ran through him like an electric spark, as if "Your time has come!" had flashed through every nerve and fibre of his being.

"Wait till you see it doing the work of half a dozen!" said he, his eyes as bright as they were in the days when he first took to his heart the hope that was now the sole joy of his life.

"Shall I see it here?" she asked. "Do you think you will find it here?"

There was that in the question that invited Bartholomew's confidence. What he had longed to say for weeks, and what he had restrained himself from saying, was now said. “I want success here, if anywhere on earth. Why have I stayed so long, if not for that?"

He had now stepped down from the door of the mill, and they were walking slowly up the lane.

"Uncle is a magnet strong enough to keep us all here, it seems to me," said Barbara.

"I owe a great deal to Mr. Altman," returned Bartholomew; "but I have served him as I would not serve another man. And she was like a mother to me, if I was not as a son to her. But these things perhaps could not keep me, if it was n't for the wheel. I think so. I am afraid so."

"Tell me about the wheel. I am so glad there is something in it." "All my life is in it!" So the inmost truth escaped him!

"Why, then I am delighted! You must set it up and let all the neighborhood see it work. This very summer! What reason can there be for waiting?"

When Barbara had said this, she was aware that she had pronounced a decree, and that she had spoken the first word of good cheer to which Bartholomew had ever been able to respond with all his soul. How did she know it? Who is it that asks the explanation?

But he answered gravely, though with not a trace left of his usual despondence either in voice or countenance, "It will cost money, and I have not laid by enough yet. It is slow work, getting ready."

There was something in his way of saying this that excited in Barbara a feeling not unlike anger. It was not in this way that poor Dick or Joseph would have spoken, even of any unimportant purpose they had formed. Did she like Joseph's way better? There was certainly nothing like Uriah Heep's humility in Bartholomew's careful estimate of his faculties and himself; the modest statement of the fact was as unlike self-depreciation basely proposing to creep into the place of power, as it was unlike Joseph's defiant demand for the thing he coveted or desired. After a thoughtful pause, out of the sacred treasure-house of stillness came this kind of inspired speech, "Uncle has money."

way that showed the activity with which his mind was working: "You are quite right. There ought not to be any risk. I thought that I was patient. I must learn to be."

"Do you know," said Barbara, “I like to hear you say that! I really believe in you." "God bless

you ! "I shall tell Uncle and Joseph what I think about it."

"I believed you would work wonders when you came here. That old mill first gave me something to hope for; that is the reason why I love this country which seems so poor to you."

Barbara turned and looked at the mill, above which the full moon was rising; she gazed as if the old red frame-building had not stared her in the face these six months, morning, noon, and night. Was it, too, transfigured? - by the moonlight?

"The country does not seem so poor to me," said she, her voice full of apology.

"The old things are all dear to me," he said. "It won't do for me to turn my back on this country till I 've shown I was worth raising."

"O, can anybody show that!" exclaimed Barbara, laughing. "But then it may be worth while to try."

At this Bartholomew looked at her with not a little wonder. Did he understand her aright? Was it true that anybody besides himself felt dissatisfied with life, and knew what it was to be discouraged out of effort? And if he did understand her, was this fact one to kindle the warm flame that

To the ends of the brown locks which fringed the old straw hat he wore, Bartholomew seemed to be glorified when he had made this honest answer.

Barbara reflected again and said, "Ought there to be any risk?"

"Perhaps not." When he had said this, Bartholomew in turn was still. Only for a moment; he continued in a

to all that was in his dwelling? No wonder, perhaps, exceeds this, that in a moment, by a word, one may become possessed of the life of another to do with it whatsoever he will. If Bartholomew felt just now a power of will unknown to him before, it was because he felt that Barbara might do with him as it pleased her.

Uncle Joshua, returning from the