afraid of my saying anything more against him,” said Tom, bitterly; “I see that thee likes him more than I thought thee did. I might have known it too, from the way that he has been visiting thee during this last month or two.”

“Why shouldn’t he visit me, Thomas?”

“The Lord knows!”

She made no answer to this, and presently Tom spoke again.

“I’m going off to sea before long, Patty,” said he, for it seemed to him just then that the sea was a fit place for him to be. Patty made no answer to this; she was picking busily at the fringe of the scarf that hung about her shoulders.

“How soon is thee going, Thomas?” said she at last.

“Oh! I don’t know; in three or four weeks, I guess. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Patty made no reply.

Tom was leaning on the fence, looking out across the valley, but seeing nothing. His mind was in a whirl, for he was saying unto himself, “Now is the time, be a man, speak your heart boldly, for this is the opportunity!”

Twice he tried to bring himself to speak, and twice his heart failed him. The third time that he strove, he broke the silence.

“Patty,” said he. His heart was beating thickly, but there was no turning back now, for the first word had been spoken.

Patty must have had an inkling of what was in Tom’s mind, for her bosom was rising and falling quickly.

“Patty,” said Tom again.

“What is it, Thomas?” said she, in a trembling voice, and without raising her head.

Tom was picking nervously at the rough bark upon the fence-rail near to him, but he was looking at Patty.

“Thee knows why I have been coming to see thee all this time, doesn’t thee, Patty?”

“No,” whispered Patty.

“Thee doesn’t know?”

“No.”

It seemed to Tom as though the beating of his heart would smother him: “Because,—because I love thee, Patty,” said he.

Patty’s head sunk lower and lower, but she neither moved nor spoke.

Then Tom said again, “I love thee, Patty.”

He waited for a while and then he said: “Won’t thee speak to me, Patty?”

“What does thee want me to say?” whispered she.

“Does thee love me?”

Silence.

“Does thee love me?”

Tom was standing very close to her as he spoke; when she answered it was hardly above her breath, but low as the whisper was he caught it—

“Yes.”

Ah me! those days have gone by now, and I am an old man of four score years and more, but even yet my old heart thrills at the remembrance of this that I here write. Manifold troubles and griefs have fallen upon me betwixt then and now; yet, I can say, when one speaks to me of the weariness of this world and of the emptiness of things within it, “Surely, life is a pleasant thing, when it holds such joys in store for us as this,—the bliss of loving and of being loved.”

Half an hour afterward, Tom was walking down the road toward the old mill-house, and in his hand he held the hand of his darling—his first love—and life was very beautiful to him.

CHAPTER III.

NOW, although the good people of Eastcaster were very glad to welcome Tom Granger home again whenever he returned from a cruise, at the same time they looked upon him with a certain wariness, or shyness, for they could not but feel that he was not quite one of themselves.

Now-a-days one sees all kinds of strange people; the railroad brings them,—young men who sell dry-goods, books and what not. They have traveled all over the country and have, or think that they have, a world more of knowledge about things in general than other people who are old enough to be their father’s father. Such an one I saw this morning, who beat me three games of chequers, which, I own, did vex me; though any one might have done the same, for I was thinking of other things at the time, and my mind was not fixed upon the run of the game. One sees plenty of such people now-a-days, I say, but in the old times it was different, and few strangers came to Eastcaster, so that but little was known of the outside world. The good people liked well enough to hear Tom tell of the many out-of-the-way things that had happened to him during his knocking about in the world; at the same time there was always a feeling amongst them that he was different from themselves. Tom knew that they felt this way, and it made him more shy of going amongst his father’s neighbors than he would otherwise have been. Nothing makes a man withdraw within himself as much as the thought that those about him neither understand him nor care to understand him. So it came about that Elihu Penrose was not very much pleased with that which had passed between Tom Granger and his daughter.

As Tom and Patty walked home hand in hand, hardly a word was said betwixt them. When they came to the gate in front of the mill-house they saw that Elihu was not on the porch.

“I’ll go in and speak to thy father now, Patty,” said Tom.

“Oh, Tom! Will it have to be so soon?” said Patty, in a half-frightened voice.

“The sooner spoken, the sooner over,” said Tom, somewhat grimly, for the task was not a pleasant one to do, as those who have passed through the same can tell if they choose.

So Tom went into the house, and Patty sat down on a chair on the porch to wait for his coming out again.

Tom looked in through the half-open door of the dining-room and saw Elihu sitting in his cushioned rocking-chair in front of the smouldering fire, rocking and smoking the while.

“May I come in?” said Tom, standing uncertainly at the door.

“Yes; come in,” said Elihu, without moving.

“I have something to tell thee,” said Tom.

“Sit down,” said Elihu.

Tom would rather have stood up, for he felt easier upon his feet; nevertheless, he sat down as he was bidden, leaning his elbows on his knees and gazing into the crown of his hat, which he held in his hand and turned about this way and that.

Old Elihu Penrose’s eyebrows were bushy and thick, and, like his hair, were as white as though he had been in the mill of time, and a part of the flour had fallen upon him. When he was arguing upon religion or politics, and was about to ask some keen question that was likely to trip up the wits of the one with whom he was talking, he had a way of drawing these thick eyebrows together, until he had hidden all of his eyes but the grey twinkle within them. Though Tom did not raise his head, he felt that the old man drew his eyebrows together just in this manner, as he looked upon him where he sat.

Not a word was spoken for some time, and the only sounds that broke the stillness of the room was the regular “creak, creak” of the rocker of the chair on which Elihu sat, and the sharp and deliberate “tick, tack” of the tall, old eight-day clock in the entry.

Old Elihu broke the silence; he blew a thin thread of smoke toward the chimney, and then he said: “What is it thee wants to say to me Thomas?” And yet, I have a notion that he knew very well what it was that Tom was going to tell him.

Then Tom looked up and gazed straight into the grey twinkle of Elihu’s eyes, hidden beneath their overhanging brows. “I—I love thy daughter,” said he, “and she’s promised to be my wife.”

Elihu looked at Tom as though he would bore him through and through with the keenness of his gaze, and Tom looked steadfastly back again at him. He felt that Elihu was trying to look him down, and he drew upon all of his strength of spirit not to let his eyes waver