"He used to learn up in his room o' nights, father," said Asahel.

"He used to carry his books to the field and study while the oxen were resting," said Winifred.

"He did! — Well, he'll get along. I aint afeard of him. He won't be the last man in the College, I guess."

"I guess not, father," said Asahel.

And now the months sped along with slow step, bringing toil- work for every day. It was cheerfully taken, and patiently wrought through; both at Shagarack and in the little valley at home; but those were doing for themselves, and these were truly doing love's work, for them. All was for them. The crops were grown and the sheep sheared, that Rufus and Winthrop might, not eat and be clothed, — that was a trifle, — but have the full good of a College education. The burden and the joy of the toilers was the same. There were delightful speculations round the fireside about the professions the young men would choose; what profound lawyers, what brilliant ministers, should come forth from the learned groves of Shagarack; perhaps, the father hinted, — statesmen. There were letters from both the boys, to be read and re-read, and loved and prided in, as once those of Rufus. And clothes came home to mend, and new and nice knitted socks went now and then to replace the worn ones; but that commerce was not frequent nor large; where there was so little to make, it was of necessity that there should not be too much to mend; and alas! if shirt- bosoms gave out, the boys buttoned their coats over them and studied the harder. There were wants they did not tell; those that were guessed at, they knew, cost many a strain at home; and were not all met then. But they had not gone to Shagarack to be' smart,' — except mentally. That they were.

They were favourites, notwithstanding. Their superiors delighted in their intellectual prominence; their fellows forgave it. Quietly and irresistibly they had won to the head of their respective portions of the establishment, and stayed there; but the brilliancy and fire of Rufus and the manliness and temper of his brother gained them the general good-will, and general consent to the place from which it was impossible to dislodge them. Admiration first followed elder brother, and liking the younger; till it was found that Winthrop was as unconquerable as he was unassuming; as sure to be ready as to be right; and a very thorough and large respect presently fell into the train of his deservings. The faculty confided in him; his mates looked up to him. There was happily no danger of any affront to Winthrop which might have called Rufus's fire disagreeably into play. And for himself, he was too universally popular. If he was always in the foreground, everybody knew it was because he could not be anywhere else. If Winthrop was often brought into the foreground, on great occasions, every soul of them knew it was because no other would have dignified it so well. And besides, neither Winthrop nor Rufus forgot or seemed to forget the grand business for which he was there. With all their diversity of manner and disposition, each was intent on the same thing, — to do what he had come there to do. Lasting eminence, not momentary pre- eminence, was what they sought; and that was an ambition which most of their compeers had no care to dispute with them.

"Poor fellows!" said a gay young money-purser; "they are working hard, I suppose, to get themselves a place in the eye of the world."

"Yes sir," said the President, who overheard this speech; — "and they will by and by be where you can't see them."

They came home for a few weeks in the summer, to the unspeakable rejoicing of the whole family; but it was a break of light in a cloudy day; the clouds closed again. Only now and then a stray sunbeam of a letter found its way through.

One year had gone since the boys went to College, and it was late in the fall again. Mr. Underhill, who had been on a journey back into the country, came over one morning to Mr. Landholm's.

"Good morning!" said the farmer. "Well, you've got back from your journey into the interior."

"Yes," said Mr. Underhill, — "I've got back."

"How did you find things looking, out there?"

"Middling; — their winter crops are higher up than yours and mine be."

"Ay. I suppose they've a little the start of us with the sun. Did you come through Shagarack?"

"Yes — I stopped there a night."

"Did you see my boys?"

"Yes — I see 'em."

"Well — what did they say?" said the father, with his eye alive.

"Well — not much," said Mr. Underhill.

"They were well, I suppose?"

"First-rate — only Winthrop looked to me as if he was workin' pretty hard. He's poorer, by some pounds, I guess, than he was when he was to hum last August."

"Didn't he look as usual?" said the father with a smothered anxiety.

"There wa'n't no other change in him, that I could see, of no kind. I didn't know as Rufus was going to know who I was, at first."

"He hasn't seen much of you for some time."

"No; and folks lose their memory," said Mr. Underhill. "I saw the — what do you call him? — the boss of the concern — president! — President Tuttle. I saw him and had quite a talk with him."

"The president! How came you to see him?"

"Well, 'taint much to see a man, I s'pose, — is it? I took a notion I'd see him. I wanted to ask him how Will and Winthrop was a getting along. I told him I was a friend o' yourn."

"Well, did you ask him?"

"Yes I did."

"What did he say?" said Mr. Landholm, half laughing.

"I asked him how they were getting along."

"Ay, and what did he answer to that?"

"He wanted to know if Mr. Landholm had any more sons?"

"Was that all?" said the farmer, laughing quite.

"That was the hull he said, with a kind of kink of his eye that wa'n't too big a sum for me to cast up. He didn't give me no more satisfaction than that."

"And what did you tell him — to his question?"

"I? — I told him that two such plants took a mighty sight of room to grow, and that the hull county was clean used up."

"You did!" said Mr. Landholm laughing heartily. "Pretty well! — pretty good! — Have some tobacco, neighbour?"

"How is it?" said Mr. Underhill taking a bunch gravely.

"First-rate, — I think. Try."

Which Mr. Underhill did, with slow and careful consideration. Mr. Landholm watched him complacently.

"I've seen worse," he remarked dryly at length. "Where did you get it, squire?"

"Nowhere short of the great city, neighbour. It came from Mannahatta."

"Did, hey? Well, I reckon it might. Will you trade?"

"With what?" said Mr. Landholm.

"Some of this here."

"With you?"

"Yes."

"Well — let's hear," said the farmer.

"Don't you think the post ought to be paid?" said Mr. Underhill, diving into some far-down pockets.

"Why, are you the post?"

"Don't you think that two sealed letters, now, would be worth a leetle box o' that 'ere?"

"Have you brought letters from the boys?"

"Well I don't know who writ 'em," said Mr. Underhill; — "they guv 'em to me."

Mr. Landholm took the letters, and with a very willing face went for a 'little box,' which he filled with the Mannahatta tobacco.

"Old Cowslip don't keep anything like this," Mr. Underhill said as he received it and stowed it coolly away in his pocket. "I mean to shew it to him."

"Will you stay to dinner, neighbour?"

"No thank 'ee — I've got to get over the river; and my little woman'll have something cooked for me; and if I wa'n't there to eat it I shouldn't hear the last of my wastefulness."

"Ay? is that the way she does?" said Mr. Landholm laughing.

"Something like it. A tight grip, I tell ye!"

And with these words Mr. Underhill took himself out of the house.

"Where's your mother, Asahel? call her and tell her what's here," said Mr. Landholm, as he broke one of the seals.

"Shagarack, Dec. 3, 1810.

"My dear parents,

"I take the opportunity of friend Underhill's going home to send you a word — I can't write much more than a word, I'm so busy. I never drove my plough at home half so industriously as now I am trying to break up and sow the barren fields of mind. But oh, this is sweeter labour than that. How shall I ever repay you, my dear father and dear mother, for the efforts you are making — and enduring — to give me this blessing. I feel them to my very heart — I know them much better than from your words. And perhaps this poor return of words is all I shall ever be able to make you, — when it seems to me sometimes as if I could spill my very heart to thank you. But if success can thank you, you shall be thanked. I feel that within me which says I shall have it. Tell mother the box came safe, and was gladly received. The socks &c. are as nice as possible, and very comfortable this weather; and the mittens, tell Winnie, are like no other mittens that ever were knit; but I wish I could have hold of the dear little hands that knit them for a minute instead — she knows what would come next.

"You bid me say if I want anything — sometimes I think I want nothing but to hear from you a little oftener — or to see you! — that would be too pleasant. But I am doing very well, though I do want to know that ma is not working so hard. I shall relieve pa from any further charge of me after this. I consulted the President; and he has given me a form in the grammar school to take care of — I believe pa knows there is a grammar school connected with the Institution. This will pay my bills, and to my great joy relieve my father from doing so any more. This arrangement leaves me but half of the usual study hours (by day) for myself; so you see I have not much leisure to write letters, and must close.

"Your affectionate son,

"Winthrop Landholm.

"I don't forget Asahel, though I haven't said a word of him; and give my love to Karen."

Mr. and Mrs. Landholm looked up with pleasant faces at each other and exchanged letters. She took Winthrop's and her husband began upon the other, which was from Rufus. Asahel and Winifred were standing anxiously by.

"What do they say?"

"You shall hear directly."

"Does he say any thing about me?" said Winifred.

But father and mother were deep in the precious despatches, and the answer had to be waited for.

"Shagarack College, Dec. 1810.

"My dear friends at home,

"This funny little man says he will take letters to you; — so as it is a pity not to cultivate any good disposition, Governor and I have determined to favour him. But really there is not much to write about. Our prospects are as bare as your garden in November — nothing but roots above ground or under — some thrown together, and some, alas! to be dug for; only ours are not parsnips and carrots but a particularly tasteless kind called Greek roots; with a variety denominated algebraic, of which there are quantities. At these roots, or at some branches from the same, Governor and I are tugging as for dear life, so it is no wonder if our very hands smell of them. I am sure I eat them every day with my dinner, and ruminate upon them afterwards. In the midst of all this we are as well as usual. Governor is getting along splendidly; and I am not much amiss; at least so they say. The weather is pretty stinging these few days, and I find father's old cloak very useful. I think Winthrop wants something of the sort, though he is as stiff as a pine tree, bodily and mentally, and won't own that he wants any thing. He won't want any thing long, that he can get. He is working confoundedly hard. I beg mamma's pardon — I wouldn't have said that if I had thought of her — and I would write over my letter now, if I were not short of time, and to tell truth, of paper. This is my last sheet, and a villainous bad one it is; but I can't get any better at the little storekeeper's here, and that at a horridly high price.

"As Governor is writing to you, he will give you all the sense, so it is less matter that there is absolutely nothing in this epistle. Only believe me, my dear father and mother and Winnie and Asahel, ever your most dutiful, grateful, and affectionate son and brother,

"Will. Rufus Landholm.

"My dear mother, the box was most acceptable."

After being once read in private, the letters were given aloud to the children; and then studied over and again by the father and mother to themselves. Winifred was satisfied with the mention of her name; notwithstanding which, she sat with a very wistful face the rest of the afternoon. She was longing for her brother's hand and kiss.

"Have your brothers' letters made you feel sober, Winnie?" said her mother.

"I want to see him, mamma! —"

"Who?"

"Governor. —"

It was the utmost word Winifred's lips could speak.

"But dear Winnie," said her mother sorrowfully, "it is for their good and their pleasure they are away."

"I know it, mamma, — I know I am very selfish —"

"I don't think you are," said her mother. "Winnie, remember that they are getting knowledge and fitting themselves to be better and stronger men than they could be if they lived here and learnt nothing."

"Mamma," said Winifred looking up as if defining her position, "I don't think it is right, but I can't always help it."

"We have one friend never far off."

"Oh mamma, I remember that all the while."

"Then can't you look happy?"

"Not always, mamma," said the little girl covering her face quickly. The mother stooped down and put her arms round her.

"You must ask him, and he will teach you to be happy always."

"But I can't, mamma, unless I could be right always," said poor Winifred.

Mrs. Landholm was silent, but kissed her with those soft motherly kisses which had comfort and love in every touch of them. Soon answered, for Winifred lifted up her head and kissed her again.

"How much longer must they be there, mamma?" she asked more cheerfully.

"Two years," Mrs. Landholm answered, with a sigh that belonged to what was not spoken.

"Mamma," said Winifred again presently, trying not to shew from how deep her question came, "aint you afraid Winthrop wants something more to wear?"

And Mrs. Landholm did not shew how deep the question went, but she said lightly,

"We'll see about it. We'll get papa to write and make him tell us what he wants."

"Maybe he won't tell," said Winifred thoughtfully. "I wish I could write."

"Then why don't you set to and learn? Nothing would please Governor so much."

"Would it!" said Winifred with a brightened face.

"Asahel," she said, as Asahel came in a few minutes after, "mamma says Governor would like nothing so well as to have me learn to write."

"I knew that before," said Asahel coolly. "He was talking to me last summer about learning you."

"Was he! Then will you Asahel? Do you know yourself?"

"I know how to begin," said Asahel.

And after that many a sorrowful feeling was wrought into trammels and pothooks.

CHAPTER XIV.

Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach! Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay; the knocks are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it. KING HENRY V.

"To Mr. Winthrop Landholm, Shagarack College.

"Dec. 10, 1810.

"My dear son,

"We received yours of the third, per Mr. Underhill, which was very gratifying to your mother and myself, as also Will's of the same date. We cannot help wishing we could hear a little oftener, as these are the first we have had for several weeks. But we remember your occupations, and I assure you make due allowances; yet we cannot help thinking a little more time might be given to pa and ma. This is a burdensome world, and every one must bear their own burdens; yet I think it must be conceded it is right for every individual to do what may be in his power towards making the lot of others pleasanter. This I am sure you believe, for you act upon it; and you know that nothing so lightens our load as to know that Will and Governor are doing well. It is a world of uncertainties; and we cannot know this unless you will tell us.

"My dear sons, I do not mean to chide you, and I have said more on this subject than I had any intention to do. But it is very natural, when a subject lies so near the heart, that I should exceed the allotted bounds.

"Winthrop, your mother is afraid, from something in Will's letter, that you are in want of an overcoat. Tell us if you are, and we will do our best to endeavour to supply the deficiency. I thought you had one; but I suppose it must be pretty old by this time. My dear son, we have all one interest; if you want anything, let us know, and if it can be had you know enough of us to know you shall not want it. We have not much to spare certainly, but necessaries we will try to procure; and so long as we need not groan about the present it is not my way to grumble about the future. We shall get along, somehow, I trust.

"I shall send this by post, as I do not know of any opportunity, and do not think it best to wait for one."

"Your loving father,

"W. Landholm.

"Winthrop and Will."

"My dear boys,

"It is very late to-night, and I shall not have any time in the morning, so must scratch a word as well as I can tonight — you know my fingers are not very well accustomed to handling the pen. It gives me the greatest pleasure I can have in this world when I hear that you are getting along so well — except I could hear one other thing of you, — and that would be a pleasure beyond anything in this world. Let us know everything you want — and we will try to send it to you, and if we can't we will all want it together. — We are all well — Winifred mourns for you all the while, in spite of trying not to do it. What the rest of us do is no matter. I shall send a box, if I can, before New Year, with some cakes and apples — write us before that, in time, all you want.

Your mother."

This double letter, being duly put in the post according to Mr. Landholm's promise, in the course of time and the post came safe to the Shagarack post-office; from whence it was drawn one evening by its owner, and carried to a little upper room where Rufus sat, or rather stood, at his books. There was not a great deal there beside Rufus and the books; a little iron stove looked as if it disdained to make anybody comfortable, and hinted that much persuasion was not tried with it; a bed was in one corner, and a deal table in the middle of the floor, at which Winthrop sat down and read his letters.

He was longer over them than was necessary to read them, by a good deal. So Rufus thought, and glanced at him sundry times, though he did not think fit to interrupt him. He lifted his head at last and passing them over coolly to Rufus, drew his book near and opened his dictionary. He did not look up while Rufus read, nor when after reading he began to walk with thoughtful large strides up and down the little room.

"Governor!" said Rufus suddenly and without looking at him, "sometimes I am half tempted to think I will take Mr. Haye's offer."

"Did he make you an offer?"

"He said what was near enough to it."

"What tempts you, Will?"

"Poverty. It is only, after all, taking a short road instead of a long one to the same end."

"The end of what?" said Winthrop.

"Of painstaking and struggling."

There was silence, during which Rufus continued his strides through the room, and the leaves of Winthrop's books ever and anon turned and rustled.

"What do you think of it?"

"Nothing."

"Why?"

"I don't believe in drinking of a roiled stream because it happens to be the first one you come to."

"Not if you are dry?"

"No, — not unless everything else is, too."

"But merchandise is a very honourable pursuit," said Rufus, walking and studying the floor.

"Certainly. — Twelve feet is a good growth for dogwood, isn't it?" said Winthrop gravely, looking up and meeting his cool grey eye with that of his brother.

Rufus first stared, and then answered, and then burst into a fit of laughter. Then he grew quite grave again and went on walking up and down.

"The fact is," he said a little while after, — "I don't know exactly what I am fittest for."

"You would be fit for anything if you did," answered his brother.

"Why?"

"You would be an uncommonly wise man."

"You might be that with very little trouble, for you are the fittest for everything of anybody I know."

Winthrop studied his books, and Rufus walked perseveringly.

"You hold to taking up law?"

"I will, when I begin it," said Winthrop.

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where will you take it up?"

"In Mannahatta."

"And then you will rise to the top of the tree!" said his brother half admiringly, half sadly.

"That I may catch a glimpse of you in the top of some other tree," said Winthrop.

"But this want of money is such a confounded drag!" said Rufus after a few minutes.

"Let it drag you up hill, then. A loaded arrow flies best against the wind."

"Winthrop, I wonder what you are made of!" said Rufus stopping short and looking at him and his books. "The toughest, the sturdiest —"

But Winthrop lifted up his face and gave his brother one of those smiles, which were somewhat as if the sturdy young ash to which he likened him had of a sudden put forth its flowers and made one forget its strength in its beauty. Rufus stopped, and smiled a little himself.

"My choice would be engineering," he said doubtfully.

"Stick to your choice," said Winthrop.

"That's a very good business for making money," Rufus went on, beginning to walk again; — "and there is a variety about it I should like."

"Are you in correspondence with Mr. Haye?"

"No. Why?"

"You seem to be adopting his end of life."

"I tell you, Winthrop," said Rufus stopping short again, "whatever else you may have is of very little consequence if you haven't money with it! You may raise your head like Mont Blanc, above the rest of the world; and if you have nothing to shew but your eminence, people will look at you, and go and live somewhere else."

"You don't see the snow yet, do you?" said Winthrop, so dryly that Rufus laughed again, and drawing to him his book sat down and left his brother to study in peace.

The peace was not of long lasting, for at the end of half or three quarters of an hour Winthrop had another interruption. The door opened briskly and there came in a young man, — hardly that, — a boy, but manly, well grown, fine and fresh featured, all alive in spirits and intellect. He came in with a rush, acknowledged Rufus's presence slightly, and drawing a stool close by Winthrop, bent his head in yet closer neighbourhood. The colloquy which followed was carried on half under breath, on his part, but with great eagerness.

"Governor, I want you to go home with me Christmas."

"I can't, Bob."

"Why?"

Winthrop answered with soft whistling.

"Why?"

"I must work."

"You can work there."

"No I can't."

"Why not?"

"I must work here."

"You can work afterwards."

"Yes, I expect to."

"But Governor, what have you got to keep you?"

"Some old gentlemen who lived in learned times a great while ago, are very pressing in their desires to be acquainted with me — one Plato, one Thucydides, and one Mr. Tacitus, for instance."

"You'll see enough of them, Governor; — you don't like them better than me, do you?"

"Yes, Bob, — I expect they'll do more for me than ever you will."

"I'll do a great deal for you, Governor, — I want you to come with me to Coldstream — I want you to see them all at home; we'll have a good time. — Come!" —

"How do you suppose that old heathen ever got hold of such a thought as this?" — said Winthrop composedly; and he read, without minding his auditors —

"tis d'oiden, ei to zen men ei to katthanein, to katthanein de zen ;" * [* Bunyan used to say, "The Latin I borrow." I must follow so illustrious an example and confess, The Greek is lent.] "Who knows if to live is not to die, and dying but to live."



"I should think he had a bad time in this world," said Bob; "and maybe he thought Apollo would make interest for his verses in the land of shades."

"But Plato echoes the sentiment, — look here, — and he was no believer in the old system. Where do you suppose he got his light on the subject?"

"Out of a dark lantern. I say, Winthrop, I want light on my subject — Will you come to Coldstream?"

"I don't see any light that way, Bob; — I must stick fast by my dark lantern."

"Are you going to stay in Shagarack?"

"Yes."

"It's a deuced shame! —"

"What do you make of this sentence, Mr. Cool? —"

But Bob declined to construe, and took himself off, with a hearty slap on Winthrop's shoulder, and a hearty shake of his hand.

"He's so strong, there's no use in trying to fight him into reason," he remarked to Rufus as he went off.

"What do you suppose Bob Cool would make of your Platonic quotation?" said Rufus.

"What do you make of it?" said Winthrop after a slight pause.

"Eremitical philosophy! — Do you admire it?"

"I was thinking mamma would," said Winthrop.

That year came to its end, not only the solar but the collegiate. Rufus took his degree brilliantly; was loaded with compliments; went to spend a while at home, and then went to Mannahatta; to make some preparatory arrangements for entering upon a piece of employment to which President Tuttle had kindly opened him a way. Winthrop changed his form in the grammar school for the Junior Greek class, which happened to be left without any teacher by the removal of the Greek professor to the headship of another College. To this charge he proved himself fully competent. It made the same breaches upon his time, and gave him rather more amends than his form in the grammar school. And amid his various occupations, Winthrop probably kept himself warm without a new overcoat; for he had none.

It was difficult at home, by this time, to do more than make ends meet. They hardly did that. The borrowed hundreds were of necessity yet unpaid; there was interest on them that must be kept down; and the failure of Rufus and Winthrop from the farm duty told severely upon the profits of the farm; and that after it had told upon the energies and strength of the whole little family that were left behind to do all that was done. There was never a complaint nor a regret, even to each other; much less to those for whom they toiled; but often there was a shadowed look, a breath of weariness and care, that spoke from husband to wife, from parent to child, and nerved — or unnerved them. Still, Rufus had graduated; he was a splendid young man; all, as well as the parents' hearts, knew that; and Winthrop, — he was never thought of, their minds and speech never went out to him, but the brows unbent, the lips relaxed, and their eyes said that their hearts sat down to rest. Winthrop? He never could do anything but well; he never had since he was a child. He would take his degree now in a few months and he would take it honourably; and then he would be off to the great city — that was said with a throe of pain and joy! — and there he would certainly rise to be the greatest of all. To their eyes could he ever be anything else? But they were as certain of it as Winthrop himself; and Winthrop was not without his share of that quality which Dr. Johnson declared to be the first requisite to great undertakings; though to do him justice the matter always lay in his mind without the use of comparatives or superlatives. And while they sat round the fire talking of him, and of Rufus, the images of their coming success quite displaced the images of weary days and careful nights with which that success had been bought.

It was not however to be quite so speedily attained as they had looked for.

The time of examination came, and Winthrop passed through it, as President Tuttle told his father, "as well as a man could;" and took honours and distinctions with a calm matter-of-fact manner, that somehow rather damped the ardour of congratulation.

"He takes everything as if he had a right to it," observed a gentleman of the company who had been making some flattering speeches which seemed to hit no particular mark.

"I don't know who has a better right," said the President.

"He's not so brilliant as his brother," the gentleman went on.

"Do you think so? That can only have been because you did not understand him," said the President equivocally. "He will never flash in the pan, I promise you."

"But dang it, sir!" cried the other, "it is a little extraordinary to see two brothers, out of the same family, for two years running, take the first honours over the head of the whole College. What is a man to think, sir?"

"That the College has not graduated two young men with more honour to herself and them in any two years of my Presidency, sir. Allow me to introduce you to the fortunate father of these young gentlemen — Mr. Landholm."

This story Mr. Landholm used afterwards often to repeat, with infinite delight and exultation.

Rufus was not at Shagarack at this time. Instead thereof came a letter.

"Mannahatta, Aug. 26, 1812.

"My dear Governor,

"It has cost me more than I can tell you, that I have not been able to witness your triumph. Nothing could hinder my sharing it. I shared it even before I heard a word of it. I shared it all last week, while the scenes were enacting; but when papa's letter came, it made an old boy of me — I would have thrown off my hat and hurrahed, if I had not been afraid to trust four walls with my feelings; and I finally took up with the safer indulgence of some very sweet tears. I told you it cost me a great deal to stay away from Shagarack. My sole reason for staying was, that it would have cost me more to go. The fact is, I had not the wherewithal — a most stupid reason, but for that very cause, a reason that you cannot argue with. I am just clearing for the North — but not, alas! your way — and I could not take out of my little funds what would carry me to Shagarack and back; and back I should have had to come. So I have lost what would have been one of the rare joys of my life. But I shall have another chance. — This is but your first degree, Governor; — your initial step towards great things; and you are not one to lag by the way.

"As for me, I am off to the regions of wildness, to see what I can do with the rocks and the hills of rude Nature — or what they will do with me, which is perhaps nearer the truth. Not very inviting, after this gay and brilliant city, where certainly the society is very bewitching. I have happened to see a good deal, and some of the best of it. Mr. Haye has been very attentive to me, and I believe would really like to renew his old offer. He lives here en prince; with every thing to make his house attractive besides the two little princesses who tenant it; and who make it I think the pleasantest house in Mannahatta. Your friend is amazingly improved, though she is rather more of a Queen than a princess; but the other is the most splendid little creature I ever saw. They were very gracious to your humble servant. I have seen a good deal of them and like them better and better. Herder is charming. He has introduced me to a capital set — men really worth knowing — they have also been very kind to me, and I have enjoyed them greatly; — but from all this I am obliged to break away, — and from you; for I have no more room. I will write you when I get to the N. W. L.

"P. S. When you come hither, take up your quarters with my landlord, George Inchbald — cor. Beaver and Little South Sts. He loves me and will welcome you. Inchbald is an Englishman, with a heart larger than his means, and a very kind widowed sister."

Winthrop read this letter gravely through, folded it up, and took hold of the next business in hand.

He could not go yet to the great city. The future rising steps to which Rufus looked forward so confidently, were yet far away. He owed a bill at the tailor's; and had besides one or two other little accounts unsettled, which it had been impossible to avoid, and was now impossible to leave. Therefore he must not leave Shagarack. The first thing to do was to clear these hindrances from his way. So he entered his name as law-reader at the little office of Mr. Shamminy, to save time, and took a tutorship in the College to earn money. He had the tutorship of the Junior Greek class, which his father loved to tell he carried further than ever a class had been carried before; but that was not all; he had a number of other recitations to attend which left him, with the necessary studies, scant time for reading law. That little was made the most of and the year was gained.

All the year was needed to free himself from these cobweb bindings that held him fast at Shagarack. Another Commencement over, his debts paid, he went home; to make a little pause on that landing-place of life's journey before taking his last start from it.

CHAPTER XV.

I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms: They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. TENNYSON.

That little space of time was an exceeding sweet one. Governor was at home again, — and Governor was going away again. If anything had been needed to enhance his preciousness, those two little facts would have done it. Such an idea entered nobody's head. He was the very same Winthrop, they all said, that had left them four years ago; only taller, and stronger, and handsomer.

"He's a beautiful strong man!" said Karen, stopping in the act of rolling her cakes, to peer at him out of the kitchen window. "Aint he a handsome feller, Mis' Landholm?"

"Handsome is that handsome does, Karen."

"Don't he do handsome?" said Karen, flouring her roller. "His mother knows he does, I wish I knowed my shortcake'd be arter the same pattern."

Winthrop pulled off his coat and went into the fields as heartily as if he had done nothing but farming all his days; and harvests that autumn came cheerily in. The corn seemed yellower and the apples redder than they had been for a long time. Asahel, now a fine boy of fifteen, was good aid in whatever was going on, without or within doors. Rufus wrote cheerfully from the North, where he still was; and there was hardly a drawback to the enjoyment of the little family at home.

There was one; and as often happens it had grown out of the family's greatest delight. Winifred was not the Winifred of former days. The rosy-cheeked, fat, laughing little roll-about of five years old, had changed by degrees into a slim, pale, very delicate-looking child of twelve. Great nervous irritability, and weakness, they feared of the spine, had displaced the jocund health and sweet spirits which never knew a cloud. It was a burden to them all, the change; and yet — so strangely things are tempered — the affections mustered round the family hearth to hide or repair the damage disease had done there, till it could scarcely be said to be poorer or worse off than before. There did come a pang to every heart but Winifred's own, when they looked upon her; but with that rose so sweet and rare charities, blessing both the giver and the receiver, that neither perhaps was less blessed than of old. Winthrop's face never shewed that there was anything at home to trouble him, unless at times when Winifred was not near; his voice never changed from its cool cheerfulness; and yet his voice had a great deal to say to her, and his face Winifred lived upon all the while he was at home. He never seemed to know that she was weaker than she used to be; but his arm was always round her, or it might be under her, whenever need was; and to be helped by his strength was more pleasant to Winifred than to have strength of her own.

She was sitting on his knee one day, and they were picking out nuts together; when she looked up and spoke, as if the words could not be kept in.

"What shall I do when you are gone!"

"Help mother, and keep Asahel in spirits."

Winifred could not help laughing a little at this idea.

"I wonder if anything could trouble Asahel much," she said.

"I suppose he has his weak point — like the rest of us," said Winthrop.

"You haven't."

"How do you know?"

"I don't know, but I think so," said Winifred, touching her hand to his cheek, and then kissing him.

"What's your weak point?"

"They're all over," said Winifred, with a little change of voice; "I haven't a bit of strength about anything. I don't think anybody's weak but me."

"Nobody ought to be weak but you," said her brother, with no change in his.

"I oughtn't to be weak," said Winifred; "but I can't help it."

"It doesn't matter, Winnie," said her brother; "you shall have the advantage of the strength of all the rest."

"That wouldn't be enough," said Winifred, gently leaning her head upon the broad breast which she knew was hers for strength and defence.

"Not, Winnie? — What will you have?"

"I'll have the Bible," said the child, her thin intelligent face looking at him with all its intelligence.

"The Bible, Winnie?" said Winthrop cheerfully.

"Yes, because there I can get strength that isn't my own, and that is better than yours, or anybody's."

"That's true, Winnie; but what do you want so much strength for?" he said coolly.

She looked at him again, a look very hard indeed to bear.

"O I know, Winthrop," she said; — "I want it. — I want it now for your going away."

Her voice was a little checked, and again she leaned forward upon him, this time so as to hide her face.

Winthrop set down the nuts and drew her more close, and his lips kissed the little blue and white temple which was all of her face he could get at.

"It's best I should go, Winnie," he said.

"O I know you must."

"I will have a house one of these days and you shall come and keep it for me."

She sat up and shook away a tear or two, and laughed, but her speech was not as jocular as she meant it to be.

"What a funny housekeeper I should make!"

"The best in the world. You shall study, and I will knit the socks."

"O Governor! What do you know about knitting socks?"

"I know who has knit mine ever since I have been at Shagarack."

"Did mamma tell you?" said the child with a bright sharp glance.

"I found it out."

"And were they all right? Because I am going to keep on doing it, Governor."

"Till you come to be my housekeeper."

"I don't believe that'll ever be," said Winifred.

"Why not?"

"It seems so funny, to think of your ever having a house in Mannahatta!"

"Will you come, Winnie?"

"O Governor! — I dont know," she said, her face full of a world of uncertainties.

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know any thing; and you don't. O Governor" — and she flung her arms round his neck, and spoke words coined out of her heart, — "I wish you were a Christian! —"

For a minute only he did not speak; and then he said calmly in her ear,

"I shall be — I mean to be one, Winnie."

Her little head lay very still and silent a few minutes more; and when she lifted it she did not carry on the subject; unless the kisses she gave him, only too strong in their meaning, might be interpreted.

"I should feel so much better if you knew somebody in Mannahatta," she said presently.

"I do. I know Mr. Herder."

"O yes; but I mean more than that; somebody where you could stay and be nice."

"I shall not stay where I cannot be nice."

"I know that," said Winifred; "but you don't know anywhere to go, do you?"

"Yes. Uncle Forriner's."

"Uncle Forriner. — You don't know him, do you?"

"Not yet."

"Did you ever see him?"

"No."

"Maybe you won't like him."

"Then it will matter the less about his liking me."

"He can't help that," said Winifred.

"You think so?"

"But Rufus didn't stay with him?"

"No — Mr. Forriner only moved to Mannahatta about a year ago."

"Have you ever seen Aunt Forriner?"

"Yes — once."

"Well — is she good?"

"I hope so."

"You don't know, Governor?"

"I don't know, Winnie."

Winifred waited a little.

"What are you going to do, Governor, when you first get there?"

"I suppose the first thing will be to go and examine Uncle Forriner and see if I like him."

Winifred laughed.

"No, no, but I mean business — what you are going to Mannahatta for — what will be the first thing?"

"To shew myself to Mr. De Wort."

"Who's he?"

"He is a lawyer in Mannahatta."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"No, Winnie; but other people do."

"What are you going to see him for, Governor?"

"To ask him if he will let me read law in his office."

"Will he want to be paid for it?"

"I don't know."

"Suppose he should, Governor?"

"Then I will pay him, Winifred."

"How can you?"

Her brother smiled a little. "My eyes are not far-sighted enough to tell you, Winnie. I can only give you the fact."

Winifred smiled too, but in her heart believed him.

"Did you ever see Mr. De Wort?"

"Never."

"Then what makes you choose him?"

"Because he is said to be the best lawyer in the city."

Winifred put her fingers thoughtfully through and through the short dark wavy brown hair which graced her brother's broad brow, and wondered with herself whether there would not be a better lawyer in the city before long. And then in a sweet kind of security laid her head down again upon his breast.

"I'll have a house for you there, by and by, Winnie," he said, as his arm drew round her.

"O I couldn't leave mother, you know," she answered.

Her mother called her at this instant, and she ran off, leaving him alone.

He had spoken to her all the while with no change on his wonted calm brow and lip; but when she left the room he left it; and wandering down to some hiding place on the rocky shore, where only the silent cedars stood witnesses, he wept there till his strong frame shook, with what he no more than the rocks would shew anywhere else. It never was shewn. He was just as he had been. Nobody guessed, unless his mother, the feeling that had wrought and was working within him; and she only from general knowledge of his nature. But the purpose of life had grown yet stronger and struck yet deeper roots instead of being shaken by this storm. The day of his setting off for Mannahatta was not once changed after it had been once fixed upon.

And it came. Almost at the end of November; a true child of the month; it was dark, chill, gloomy. The wind bore little foretokens of rain in every puff that made its way up the river, slowly, as if the sea had charged it too heavily, or as if it came through the fringe of the low grey cloud which hung upon the tops of the mountains. But nobody spoke of Winthrop's staying his journey. Perhaps everybody thought, that the day before, and the night before, and so much of the morning, it were better not to go over again.

"Hi!" sighed old Karen, as she took the coffee-pot off the hearth and wiped the ashes from it, — "it's a heavy place for our feet, just this here; — I wonder why the Lord sends 'em. He knows."

"Why he sends what, Karen?" said Winifred, taking the coffee- pot from her, and waiting to hear the answer.

"Oh go 'long, dear," said the old woman; — "I was quarrelling with the Lord's doings, that's all."

"He knows!" repeated Winnie, turning away and bending her face down till hot tears fell on the cover of the coffee-pot. She stopped at the door of the keeping-room and fought the tears with her little hand desperately, for they were too ready to come; once and again the hand was passed hard over cheeks and eyes, before it would do and she could open the door.

"Well, mother," said Mr. Landholm, coming back from a look at the weather, — "let's see what comfort can be got out of breakfast!"

None, that morning. It was but a sham, the biscuits and coffee. They were all feeding on the fruits of life-trials, struggles and cares, past and coming; and though some wild grown flowers of hope mingled their sweetness with the harsh things, they could not hide nor smother the taste of them. That taste was in Mr. Landholm's coffee; the way in which he set down the cup and put the spoon in, said so; it was in Winthrop's biscuit, for they were broken and not eaten; it seemed to be in the very light, to Winifred's eyes, by the wistful unmarking look she gave to everything the light shined upon.

It was over; and Mrs. Landholm had risen from the tea-board and stood by the window. There Winthrop parted from her, after some tremulous kisses, and with only the low, short, "Good bye, mother!" He turned to meet the arms of his little sister, which held him like some precious thing that they might not hold. It was hard to bear, but he bore it; till she snatched her arms away from his neck and ran out of the room. Yet she had not bid him good bye and he stood in doubt, looking after her. Then remembered Karen.

He went into the kitchen and shook the old shrivelled hand which was associated in his memory with many an old act of kindness, many a time of help in days of need.

"Good bye, Karen."

"Well — good bye, —" said the old woman slowly, and holding his hand. "I sometimes wonder what ever you were brought into the world for, Mr. Winthrop."

"Why, Karen?"

"Because I aint much better than a fool," she said, putting her other hand to her eyes. "But ye're one of the Lord's precious ones, Governor; he will have service of ye, wherever ye be."

Winthrop wrung her hand. Quitting her, he saw his sister waiting for him at the kitchen door. She let him come within it, and then holding up her Bible which had hung in one hand, she pointed with her finger to these words where she had it open; —

"God now commandeth all men everywhere to repent."

Her finger was under the word 'now.' She added nothing, except with her eyes, which went wistfully, searchingly, beggingly, into his; till a film of tears gathered, and the book fell, and her arms went round him again and her face was hid.

"I know, dear Winnie," he said softly, stooping to her after the silent embrace had lasted a minute. — "I must go — kiss me."

There was a great deal in her kiss, of hope and despair; and then he was gone; and she stood at the window looking after him as long as a bit of him could be seen; clearing away the tears from her eyes that she might watch the little black speck of the boat, as it grew less and less, further and further off down the river. Little speck as it was, he was in it.

The world seemed to grow dark as she looked, — in two ways. The heavy rain clouds that covered the sky stooped lower down and hung their grey drapery on the mountains more thick and dark. But it did not rain yet, nor till Winifred turned wearily away from the window, saying that "they had got there;" — meaning that the little black speck on the water had reached the little white and brown spot on the shore which marked the place of Cowslip's Mill. Then the clouds began to fringe themselves off into rain, and Cowslip's Mill was soon hid, and river and hills were all grey under their thick watery veil. "But Governor will be in the stage, mamma," said Winifred. "He won't mind it."

Poor Winifred! Poor Governor! — He was not in the stage. There was no room for him. His only choice was to take a seat beside the driver, unless he would wait another day; and he never thought of waiting. He mounted up to the box, and the stage- coach went away with him; while more slowly and soberly the little boat set its head homewards and pulled up through the driving rain.

It rained steadily, and all things soon owned the domination of the watery clouds. The horses, the roads, the rocks, the stage-coach, and the two outsiders, who submitted for a long distance in like silence and quiet; though with the one it was the quiet of habit and with the other the quiet of necessity. Or it might be of abstraction; for Winthrop's mind took little heed to the condition of his body.

It was busy with many greater things. And among them the little word to which his sister's finger had pointed, lodged itself whether he would or no, and often when he would not. Now NOW, — "God NOW commandeth all men everywhere to repent." It was at the back of Winthrop's thoughts, wherever they might be; it hung over his mental landscape like the rain-cloud; he could look at nothing, as it were, but across the gentle shadows of that truth falling upon his conscience. The rain- drops dimpled it into the water, when the road lay by the river-side; and the bare tree-stems they were passing, that said so much of the past and the future, said also quietly and soberly, "NOW." The very stage-coach reminded him he was on a journey to the end of which the stage-coach could not bring him, and for the end of which he had no plans nor no preparations made. And the sweet images of home said, "now — make them." And yet all this, though true and real in his spirit, was so still and so softly defined, that, — like the reflection of the hills in the smooth water of the river, — he noted without noting, he saw without dwelling upon it. It was the depth of the picture, and his mind chose the stronger outlines. And then the water ruffled, and the reflection was lost.

The ride was in dull silence, till after some hours the coachman stopped to give his horses water; though he remarked, "it was contrary in them to want it." But after that his tongue seemed loosed.

"Dampish!" he remarked to his fellow-traveller, as he climbed up to his place again and took the reins.

"Can you stand it?" said Winthrop.

"Stand what?"

"Being wet through at this rate?"

"Don't signify whether a man's killed one way or another," was the somewhat unhopeful answer. "Come to the same thing in the long run, I expect."

"Might as well make as long a run as you can of it. Why don't you wear some sort of an overcoat?"

"I keep it — same way you do yourn. — No use to spoil a thing for nothing. There's no good of an overcoat but to hold so much heft of water, and a man goes lighter without it. As long as you've got to be soaked through, what's the odds?"

"I didn't lay my account with this sort of thing when I set out," said Winthrop.

"O I did. I have it about a third of the time, I guess. This and March is the plaguiest months in the hull year. They do use up a man."

Some thread of association brought his little sister's open book and pointed finger on the sudden before Winthrop, and for a moment he was silent.

"Yours is rather bad business this time of year," he remarked.

"Like all other business," said the man; "aint much choice. There's a wet and a dry to most things. What's yourn? if I may ask."

"Wet," said Winthrop.

"How? —" said the man.

"You need only look at me to see," said Winthrop.

"Well — I thought —" said his companion, looking at him again — "Be you a dominie?"

"No."

"Going to be? — Hum! — Get ap! —" said the driver touching up one of his horses.

"What makes you think so?" said Winthrop.

"Can't tell — took a notion. I can mostly tell folks, whether they are one thing or another."

"But you are wrong about me," said Winthrop; "I am neither one thing nor the other."

"I'll be shot if you aint, then," said his friend after taking another look at him. "Ben't you? — You're either a dominie or a lawyer — one of the six."

"I should like to know what you judge from. Are clergymen and lawyers so much alike?"

"I guess I aint fur wrong," said the man, with again a glance, a very benign one, of curiosity. "I should say, your eye was a lawyer and your mouth a clergyman."

"You can't tell what a man is when he is as wet as I am," said Winthrop.

"Can't tell what he's goin' to be, nother. Well, if the rain don't stop, we will, that's one thing."

The rain did not stop; and though the coach did, it was not till evening had set in. And that was too late. The wet and cold had wrought for more days than one; they brought on disease from which even Winthrop's strong frame and spirit could not immediately free him. He lay miserably ill all the next day and the next night, and yet another twelve hours; and then finding that his dues paid would leave him but one dollar unbroken, Winthrop dragged himself as he might out of bed and got into the stage-coach for Mannahatta which set off that same evening.

CHAPTER XVI.

I reckon this always — that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place, till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say, welcome. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

What a journey that was, of weariness and pain and strong will. Unfit, and almost unable to travel, empty of means and resources almost alike, he would go, — and he was going; and sheer determination stood in the place and filled the want of all things beside. It was means and resources both; for both are at the command of him who knows how to command them. But though the will stand firm, it may stand very bare of cheering or helping thoughts; and so did Winthrop's that live-long night. There was no wavering, but there was some sadness that kept him company.

The morning broke as cheerless as his mood. It had rained during the night and was still raining, or sleeting, and freezing as fast as it fell. The sky was a leaden grey; the drops that came down only went to thicken the sheet of ice that lay upon everything. No face of the outer world could be more unpromising than that which slowly greeted him, as the night withdrew her veil and the stealthy steps of the dawn said that no bright day was chasing her forward. Fast enough it lighted up the slippery way, the glistening fences, the falling sleet which sheathed fields and houses with glare ice. And the city, when they came to it, was no better. It was worse; for the dolefulness was positive here, which before in the broad open country was only negative. The icy sheath was now upon things less pure than itself. The sleet fell where cold and cheerlessness seemed to be the natural state of things. Few people ventured into the streets, and those few looked and moved as if they felt it a sad morning, which probably they did. The very horses stumbled along their way, and here and there a poor creature had lost footing entirely and gone down on the ice. Slowly and carefully picking its way along, the stage-coach drew up at last at its pace in Court St.

The disease had spent itself, or Winthrop's excellent constitution had made good its rights; for he got out of the coach feeling free from pain, though weak and unsteady as if he had been much longer ill. It would have been pleasant to take the refreshment of brushes and cold water, for his first step; but it must have been a pleasure paid for; so he did not go into the house. For the same reason he did not agree to the offer of the stage-driver to carry him and his baggage to the end of his journey. He looked about for some more humble way of getting his trunk thither, meaning to take the humblest of all for himself. But porters seemed all to have gone off to breakfast or to have despaired of a job. None were in sight. Only a man was shuffling along on the other side of the way, looking over at the stage-coach.

"Here, Jem — Tom — Patrick!" — cried the stage-driver, — "can't you take the gentleman's trunk for him?"

"Michael, at your service, and if it's all one t' ye," said the person called, coming over. "I'm the boy! Will this be the box?"

"That is it; but how will you take it?" said Winthrop.

"Sure I'll carry it — asy — some kind of a way," said Michael, handling the trunk about in an unsettled fashion and seeming to meditate a hoist of it to his shoulders. "Where will it go, sir-r?"

"Stop, — that won't do — that handle won't hold," said the trunk's master. "Haven't you a wheelbarrow here?"

"Well that's a fact," said Michael, letting the end of the trunk down into the street with a force that threatened its frail constitution; — "if the handle wouldn't hould, there'd be no hoult onto it, at all. Here! — can't you let us have a barrow, some one amongst ye? — I'll be back with it afore you'll be wanting it, I'll engage."

Winthrop seconded the application; and the wheelbarrow after a little delay came forth. The trunk was bestowed on it by the united efforts of the Irishman and the ostler.

"Now, don't let it run away from you, Pat," said the latter.

"It'll not run away from Michael, I'll engage," said that personage with a capable air, pulling up first his trowsers band and then the wheelbarrow handles, to be ready for a start. "Which way, then, sir, will I turn?"

Winthrop silently motioned him on, for in spite of weakness of body and weariness of spirit he felt too nervously inclined to laugh, to trust his mouth with any demonstrations. Michael and the wheelbarrow went on ahead and he followed, both taking the middle of the street where the ice was somewhat broken up, for on the sidewalk there was no safety for anybody. Indeed safety anywhere needed to be cared for. And every now and then some involuntary movement of Michael and the barrow, together with some equally unlooked-for exclamation of the former, by way of comment or explanation, startled Winthrop's eye and ear, and kept up the odd contrast of the light with the heavy in his mind's musings. It had ceased to rain, but the sky was as leaden grey as ever, and still left its own dull look on all below it. Winthrop's walk along the streets was a poor emblem of his mind's travelling at the time; — a painful picking the way among difficulties, a struggle to secure a footing where foothold there was not; the uncertain touch and feeling of a cold and slippery world. All true, — not more literally than figuratively. And upon this would come, with a momentary stop and push forward of the wheelbarrow, —

"'Faith, it's asier going backwards nor for'ards! — Which way will I turn, yer honour? is it up or down?"

"Straight ahead."

"Och, but I'd rather the heaviest wheeling that ever was invinted, sooner nor this little slide of a place. — Here we go! — Och, stop us! — Och, but the little carriage has taken me to itself intirely. It was all I could do to run ahint and keep up wid the same. Would there be much more of the hills to go down, yer honour, the way we're going?"

"I don't know. Keep in the middle of the street."

"Sure I'm blessed if I can keep any place!" said Michael, whose movements were truly so erratic and uncertain that Winthrop's mood of thoughtfulness was more than once run down by them. — "The trunk's too weighty for me, yer honour, — it will have its own way and me after it — here we go! — Och, it wouldn't turn out if it was for an angel itself. Maybe yer honour wouldn't go ahead and stop it?"

"No chance, I'm afraid," said Winthrop, whose mouth was twitching at the trot of the Irishman's feet after the wheelbarrow.

"Och, but we'll never get down there!" he said as he paused at the top of a long slope. "Then I never knew before what a hard time the carriage has to go after the horses! We'll never get down there, yer honour?"

"Never's a great word, Michael."

"It is, sir!"

"I think you can get down there if you try."

"Very well, sir! — I suppose I will."

But he muttered Irish blessings or cursings to himself as he took up his trowsers and wheelbarrow handles again.

"Yer honour, do ye think we'll ever keep on our feet till the bottom?"

"If you don't come down the wheelbarrow won't, I think, Michael."

"Then I suppose we'll both be to come," said the man resignedly. "Yer honour'll consider the bad way, I expict."

'His honour' had reason to remember it. They were going down Bank St., where the fall of ground was rather rapid, and the travel of the morning had not yet been enough to break up the smooth glare of the frozen sleet. The Irishman and the barrow got upon a run, the former crying out, "Och, it will go, yer honour!" — and as it would go, it chose its own course, which was to run full tilt against a cart which stood quietly by the sidewalk. Neither Michael's gravity nor that of the wheelbarrow could stand the shock. Both went over, and the unlucky trunk was tumbled out into the middle of the street. But the days when the old trunk could have stood such usage were long past. The hasp and hinge gave way, the cover sprang, and many a thing they should have guarded from public eyes flew or rolled from its hiding place out upon the open street.

Winthrop from higher ground had beheld the overthrow, and knew what he must find when he got to the bottom. Two or three pair of the socks little Winnie had knitted for him had bounced out and scattered themselves far and wide, one even reaching the gutter. Some sheets of manuscript lay ingloriously upon the wheelbarrow or were getting wet on the ice. One nicely "done up" shirt was hopelessly done for; and an old coat had unfolded itself upon the pavement, and was fearlessly telling its own and its master's condition to all the passersby. Two or three books and several clean pockethandkerchiefs lay about indifferently, and were getting no good; an old shoe on the contrary seemed to be at home. A paper of gingercakes, giving way to the suggestions of the brother shoe, had bestowed a quarter of its contents all abroad; and the open face of the trunk offered a variety of other matters to the curiosity of whom it might concern; the broken cover giving but very partial hindrance.

The Irishman had gathered himself, and himself only, out of the fallen condition in which all things were.

"Bad luck to the ould thing, then!" — was his sense of the matter.

"You needn't wish that," said Winthrop.

"Then, yer honour, I wouldn't wish anything better to meself, if I could ha' helped it. If meself had been in the box, I couldn't ha' taken it more tinder, till we began to go, and then, plase yer honour, I hadn't no hoult of anything at all at all."

"Take hold now, then," said Winthrop, "and set this up straight; and then see if you can get a sixpenny worth of rope anywhere."

The man went off, and Winthrop gathered up his stray possessions from the street and the gutter and with some difficulty got them in their places again; and then stood mounting guard over the wheelbarrow and baggage until the coming of the rope; thinking perhaps how little he had to take care of and how strange it was there should be any difficulty in his doing it.

More care, or an evener way, brought them at last, without further mishap, to Diamond St., and along Diamond St. to Mr. Forriner's house and store. Both in the same building; large and handsome enough, at least as large and handsome as its neighbours; the store taking the front of the ground floor. Mr. Forriner stood in the doorway taking a look at the day, which probably he thought promised him little custom; for his face was very much the colour of the weather.

Winthrop stopped the wheelbarrow before the house; went up and named his name.

"Winthrop Landholm!" — the touch of Mr. Forriner's hand said nothing at all unless it were in the negative; — "how d'ye do, sir. Come to make a visit in Mannahatta?"

"No, sir. I have come here to stay."

"Ah! — hum. Sister well?"

"Very well, sir."

"Left home yesterday?"

"No sir — three days ago."

"Ah? where have you been?"

"In bed, sir — caught cold in the rain Tuesday."

"Tuesday! — yes, it did rain considerable all along Tuesday. Where were you?"

"By the way, sir."

"Just got here, eh? — bad time."

"I could not wait for a good one."

"What are you calculating to do here?"

"Study law, sir."

"Law! — hum. Do you expect to make money by that?"

"If I don't, I am afraid I shall not make money by anything," said Winthrop.

"Hum! — I guess there aint much money made by the law," said Mr. Forriner taking a pinch of snuff. "It's a good trade to starve by. How long have you to study?"

"All the time I have to live, sir."

"Eh? — and how do you expect to live in the meantime?"

"I shall manage to live as long as I study."

"Well I hope you will — I hope you will," said Mr. Forriner. "You'll come in and take breakfast with us?"

"If you will allow me, sir."

"You haven't had breakfast yet?"

"No sir, nor supper."

"Well, I guess wife's got enough for you. If that's your box you'd better get the man to help you in with it. You can set it down here behind the door."

"Is it the right place, sir?" inquired Michael as Winthrop came out to him.

"No" said Winthrop. "But you may help me in with the trunk."

Michael was satisfied that he had the right money, and departed; and Winthrop followed Mr. Forriner through a narrow entry cut off from the store, to a little back room, which was the first of the domestic premises. Here stood a table, and Mrs. Forriner; a hard-featured lady, in a muslin cap likewise hard-featured; there was a "not-give-in" look, very marked, in both, cap and lady. A look that Winthrop recognized at once, and which her husband seemed to have recognized a great while.

"Mrs. Forriner!" said that gentleman to his nephew. "My dear, this is Cousin Winthrop Landholm — Orphah's son."

"How do you do, sir?" said Mrs. Forriner's eyes and cap; her tongue moved not.

"Just come in town," pursued her husband; "and has come to take breakfast with us."

"Have you come in to stay, cousin? or are you going back again to the North?"

"I am not going back at present — I am going to stay," said Winthrop.

The lady was standing up, waiting the instant arrival of breakfast, or not enough at ease in her mind to sit down. The table and room and furniture, though plain enough and even mean in their character, had notwithstanding a sufficient look of homely comfort.

"You didn't like it up there where you were?" she went on, changing the places of things on the table with a dissatisfied air.

"Up where, ma'am?"

"O this is not Rufus, — this is Winthrop, my dear," said Mr. Forriner. "Cousin Winthrop has just come down from — I forget — from home. What does brother Landholm call his place, cousin?"

"We sometimes call it after our mountain, 'Wut-a-qut-o.'"

How sweet the syllables seemed in Winthrop's lips!

"What?" put in the lady.

Winthrop repeated.

"I should never remember it. — Then this is another cousin?" she remarked to Mr. Forriner; — "and not the one that was here before?"

"No, my dear. It is Rufus that is in the country up North somewhere — Cousin Winthrop is coming here to be a lawyer, he tells me."

"Will you sit up, cousin?" said the lady somewhat dryly, after a minute's pause, as her handmaid set a Britannia metal tea- pot on the board. The meaning of the request being that he should move his chair up to the table, Winthrop did so; for to do the family justice he had sat down some time before.

"How will your mother do without you at home?" inquired Mrs. Forriner, when she had successfully apportioned the milk and sugar in the cups.

"I have not been at home for three years past."

"Has she other sons with her?"

"Not another so old as myself."

"It's pretty hard on her, aint it, to have her two eldest go off?"

"Where have you been these three years?" put in Uncle Forriner.

"At Shagarack, sir."

"Ah! — Brother Landholm is bringing up all his sons to be civilians, it seems."

Winthrop was not very clear what his questioner meant; but as it was probable Mr. Forriner himself was in the same condition of darkness, he refrained from asking.

"What's at Shagarack?" said Mrs. Forriner.

"A College, my dear."

"College! — Have you just come to the city, cousin?"

"He caught cold in the rain last Tuesday and has been lying by ever since, and only got in town this morning."

"Have you got a place to stay?"

"Not yet, ma'am. I have been but two hours here."

"Well, you had better see to that the first thing, and come here and take dinner — that'll give you a chance. You'll easily find what you want."

"Not this morning, I think, unless it is to be found very near by," said Winthrop; "for my feet would hardly carry me a hundred yards."

"You see, he's weak yet," put in Mr. Forriner.

"Didn't you walk here, cousin?" said the lady.

"Unfortunately, I did, ma'am; for I have not strength to walk anywhere else."

"O well, you can go up stairs and lie down and get some rest; you'll be better by afternoon I dare say. Will you have another cup of tea?"

But Winthrop declined it.

"He don't look right smart," said Mr. Forriner. "I reckon he'll have to go to bed for a while. Cousin, if you'll come up stairs, I'll shew you a place where you can sleep."

They went up accordingly.

"Mr. Forriner —" called his wife from the bottom of the stairs when he and Winthrop had reached the top — "Mr. Forriner! — the end room — put him in the end room."

"Yes — it isn't very big, but you won't mind that to take a nap in," said Mr. Forriner, opening the door and ushering Winthrop in.

Where he left him; and what secrets Winthrop's pillow knew were known to none but his pillow. But the morning was not all lost in sleep; and home's fair images did come most sweet about him before sleep came at all.

He was called to dinner, but chose sleep rather, and slept well all the afternoon. Towards evening he roused himself, and though feeling very little strength to boast of, he dressed himself and went out.

The day had changed. A warmer temperature had thawed off the thin sleet, and the pavements were drying. The rain-cloud of the morning was broken up and scattering hither and thither, and through the clefts of it the sun came blinking in upon the world. The light was pleasant upon the wet streets and the long stacks of building and the rolling clouds; and the change in the air was most soothing and mild after the morning's harsh breath. Winthrop tasted and felt it as he walked up the street; but how can the outer world be enjoyed by a man to whom the world is all outer? It only quickened his sense of the necessity there was he should find another climate for his mind to live in. But his body was in no state to carry him about to make discoveries. He must care for that in the first place. After some inquiries and wandering about, he at last made his way into Bank St. and found an eating-house, very near the scene of his morning's disaster. Winthrop had very few shillings to be extravagant with; he laid down two of them in exchange for a small mutton chop and some bread; and then, somewhat heartened, set out upon his travels again, crossing over to the west side of the city. He felt glad, as he went, that his mother — and his little sister — did not know at that moment how utterly alone and foundationless he and his undertaking were standing in the place he had chosen for the scene of his labours and the home of his future life. Yet he corrected himself. Not 'foundationless,' while his strong will stood unmoved and untouched by circumstance. Let that not be conquered, it would surely be conqueror, in the long run; and he determined it should have as long a run as was necessary. He could not help the coming to his mind, as he slowly walked up Beaver St., of his mother's recipe against disappointment, and the conversation had about it years before; and the words, "Whatsoever he doeth shall prosper," as Rufus's voice had given them, came back fresh and with a moment's singular doubt and yearning touching their faithfulness. Himself, in that flash of light, he saw to be weak, and not strong. What if it should be so indeed? "Whatsoever he doeth — SHALL PROSPER." Upon the uncertainty of human things, upon the tumult of human difficulties and resolves, the words came like a strange breath of peace, from somewhere unknown, but felt to be a region of health and strength. Yet the qualifications to take the promise were not in Winthrop's hand; to seek them seemed to be a one side of his purpose; he left them on one side, and went on.

He was bending his steps towards the meeting of Beaver and Little South Sts., the sole point of light which he knew in the city. It seemed to him that rather less of the sun's cheer got into Diamond St. than anywhere else. Bank St. was a heartsome place in comparison. He made his way slowly up Beaver St. looking for Little South, and passing what to him were a great many streets without finding that one. As he drew near still another, his eye was taken with a man standing on the sidewalk before the corner house; a tall, personable, clean-looking man; who on his part looked first steadily at Winthrop and then came down to meet him, laughing and holding out his hand before he got near.

"How do you do?" was his first cordial salutation. — "It's Mr. Landholm! — I knew it! — I knew you, from your likeness to your brother. We've been looking for you. Come in, come in! How is your brother, Mr. Landholm?"

Winthrop was taken by surprise and could hardly say.

"I knew you as far off as I could see you — I said to myself, 'That's Mr. Landholm!' I am very glad to see you, sir. You've just got here?"

"This morning. But what right have I to be expected?"

"O we knew you were coming. Your room's ready for you — empty and waiting, and we've been waiting and lonesome too, ever since Mr. William went away. How is Mr. William, Mr. Landholm?"

"Well, sir, and full of kindly remembrances of you."

"Ah, he's not forgotten here," said Mr. Inchbald. "He won't be forgotten anywhere. Here's my sister, Mr. Landholm, — my sister, Mrs. Nettley. — Now, my dear sir, before we sit down, tell me, — you haven't any other place to stay?"

"I have not, Mr. Inchbald, indeed."

"Then come up and see what we have to give you, before we strike a bargain. Doll — won't you give us a cup of tea by the time we come down? Mr. Landholm will be the better of the refreshment. You have had a tiresome journey this weather, Mr. Landholm?"

As they mounted the stairs he listened to Winthrop's account of his illness, and looked at him when they got to the top, with a grave face of concern it was pleasant to meet. They had come up to the very top; the house was a small and insignificant wooden one, of two stories.

"This is your room," said Mr. Inchbald, opening the door of the front attic, — "this is the room your brother had; it's not much, and there's not much in it; but now my dear friend, till you find something better, will you keep possession of it? and give us the pleasure of having you? — and one thing more, will you speak of pay when you are perfectly at leisure to think of it, and not before, or never, just as it happens; — will you?"

"I'll take you at your word, sir; and you shall take me at mine, when the time comes."

"That I'll do," said Mr. Inchbald. "And now it's a bargain. Shake hands, — and come let's go down and have some tea. — Doll, I hope your tea is good to-night, for Mr. Landholm is far from well. Sit down — I wish your brother had the other place."

That tea was a refreshment. It was served in the little back room of the first floor, which had very much the seeming of being Mrs. Nettley's cooking room too. The appointments were on no higher scale of pretension than Mrs. Forriner's, yet they gave a far higher impression of the people that used them; why, belongs to the private mystery of cups and saucers and chairs, which have an odd obstinate way of their own of telling the truth. "Doll" was the very contrast to the lady of the other tea-table. A little woman, rather fleshy, in a close cap and neat spare gown, with a face which seemed a compound of benevolent good-will, and anxious care lest everybody should not get the full benefit of it. It had known care of another kind too. If her brother had, his jovial, healthy, hearty face gave no sign.

After tea Winthrop went back to Diamond St.

"We didn't wait for you," said Mr. Forriner as he came in, — "for we thought you didn't intend probably to be back to tea."

"What success have you had?" inquired his better half.

"I have had tea, ma'am," said Winthrop.

"Have you found any place?"

"Or the place found me."

"You have got one! — Where is it?"

"In Beaver St. — the place where my brother used to be."

"What's the name?" said Mr. Forriner.

"Inchbald."

"What is he?" asked Mrs. Forriner.

"An Englishman — a miniature painter by profession."

"I wonder if he makes his living at that?" said Mrs. Forriner.

"What do you have to pay?" said her husband.

"A fair rent, sir. And now I will pay my thanks for storage and take away my trunk."

"To-night?" said Mr. Forriner.

"Well, cousin, we shall be glad to see you sometimes," said Mrs. Forriner.

"At what times, ma'am?" said Winthrop.

He spoke with a straightforward simplicity which a little daunted her.

"O," she said colouring, "come when you have an hour to spare — any time when you have nothing better to do."

"I will come then," he said smiling.

CHAPTER XVII.

Now he weighs time, Even to the utmost grain. KING HENRY V.

"Mannahatta, Dec. — 1813.

"My dear friends at home,

"I am as well and as happy as I can be anywhere away from you. That to be sure is but a modicum of happiness and good condition — very far from the full perfection which I have known is possible; but you will all be contented, will you not, to hear that I have so much, and that I have no more? I don't know — I think of your dear circle at home — and though I cannot wish the heaven over your heads to be a whit less bright, I cannot help wishing that you may miss one constellation. You can't have any more than that from poor human nature — selfish in the midst of its best generosity. And yet, mother and Winifred, your faces rise up to shame me; and I must correct my speech and say man's nature; I do believe that some at least of your side of the world are made of better stuff than mine.

"'All are not such.'

"But you want to hear of me rather than of yourselves, and I come back to where I began.

"I went to see Mr. De Wort the day after I reached here. I like him very well. He received me politely, and very handsomely waived the customary fee ($250) and admitted me to the privileges of his office upon working terms. So I am working now, for him and for myself, as diligently as I ever worked in my life — in a fair way to be a lawyer, Winnie. By day engrossing deeds and copying long-winded papers, about the quarrels and wrongs of Mr. A. and Mr. B. — and at night digging into parchment-covered books, a dryer and barrener soil than any near Wut-a-qut-o or on the old mountain itself, and which must nevertheless be digged into for certain dry and musty fruits of knowledge to be fetched out of them. I am too busy to get the blues, but when I go out to take an exercise walk now and then at dusk or dawn, I do wish I could transport myself to the neighbourhood of that same mountain, and handle the axe till I had filled mother's fireplace, or take a turn in the barn at father's wheat or flax. I should accomplish a good deal before you were up; but I wouldn't go away without looking in at you.

"I am in the same house where Rufus lived when he was in Mannahatta, with his friend Mr. Inchbald; and a kinder friend I do not wish for. He is an Englishman — a fine-looking and fine-hearted fellow — ready to do everything for me, and putting me upon terms almost too easy for my comfort. He is a miniature painter, by profession, but I fear does not make much of a living. That does not hinder his being as generous as if he had thousands to dispose of. His heart does not take counsel with his purse, nor with anything but his heart. He lives with a widowed sister who keeps his house; and she is as kind in her way as he is in his, though the ways are different. I am as much at home here as I can be. I have Rufus's old room; it is a very pleasant one, and if there is not much furniture, neither do I want much. It holds my bed and my books; and my wardrobe at present does not require very extensive accommodations; and when I am in the middle of one of those said parchment-covered tomes, it signifies very little indeed what is outside of them or of me, at the moment. So you may think of me as having all I desire, so far as I myself am concerned; for my license and my use of it, must be worked and waited for. I shall not be a great lawyer, dear Winnie, under three years at least.

"For you all, I desire so much that my heart almost shuts up its store and says nothing. So much that for a long time, it may be, I can have no means of helping you to enjoy. Dear father and mother, I hope I have not on the whole lessened your means of enjoyment by striking out this path for myself. I trust it will in the end be found to be the best for us all. I have acted under the pressure of an impulse that seemed strong as life. I could do no other than as I have done. Yet I can hardly bear to think of you at home sometimes. Dear Winnie and Asahel, our images rise up and lie down with me. Asahel must study hard every minute of time he can get. And Winnie, you must study too every minute that it does not tire you, and when mother does not want you. And write to me. That will do you good, and it will do me good too.

"Give my love to Karen.

"Yours all, faithfully,

"Winthrop Landholm.

"P. S. — I have seen nobody yet but Mr. Herder."

When Winthrop went to put this letter in the post, he drew out the following:

"To Winthrop Landholm, Esq.:

At Mr. George Inchbald's,

"Cor. Beaver and Little South Sts., Mannahatta.

"I am so tired, Governor, with the world and myself to-night, that I purpose resting myself at your expense, — in other words, to pour over all my roiled feelings from my own heart into yours, hoping benevolently to find my own thereby cleared. What will be the case with yours, I don't like to stop to think; but incline to the opinion, which I have for many years held, that nothing can roil it. You are infinitely better than I, Governor; you deserve to be very much happier; and I hope you are. The truth is, for I may as well come to it, — I am half sick of my work. I can see your face from here, and know just what its want of expression expresses. But stop. You are not in my place, and don't know anything about it. You are qualifying yourself for one of the first literary professions — and it is one of the greatest matters of joy to me to think that you are. You are bidding fair to stand, where no doubt you will stand, at the head of society. Nothing is beyond your powers; and your powers will stop short of nothing within their reach. I know you, and hug myself (not having you at hand) every day to think what sort of a brother I have got.

"Governor, I have something in me too, and I am just now in a place not calculated to develope or cultivate the finer part of a man's nature. My associates, without an exception, are boors and donkeys, not unfrequently combining the agreeable properties of both in one anomalous animal yclept a clown. With them my days, for the greater part, are spent; and my nights in a series of calculations almost equally extinguishing to any brightness of mind or spirit. The consequence is I feel my light put out! — not hid under a bushel, but absolutely quenched in its proper existence. I felt so when I began to write this letter; but by dint of looking steadily for so long a time towards you, I perceive a reflection of light and warmth coming back upon me and beginning to take effect upon my own tinder, whereby I gather that it is capable of being ignited again. Seriously, Winthrop, I am sick of this. This was not what we left home for. I suppose in time, and with business enough, one might make money in this way, but money is not our object in life. It cannot satisfy me, and I trust not you. What shall I do? I must finish this piece of work — that will keep me in the wilds and fastnesses of this beautiful region (for it is a superb country, Winthrop; nature goes far here to make up for the want of all other discoursers whatever. I have sometimes felt as if she would make a poet of me, would I, nold I,) the finishing of my work here will detain me in the North at least till June or July of the coming summer; perhaps August. And then it is intimated to me my services would be acceptable out West — somewhere near Sawcusto. I have a great mind to come to Mannahatta — perhaps take a tutorship till something better offers — Herder said I would have no sort of difficulty in getting one, or at least he said what amounted to that — and perhaps, eventually, enter the political line. I am undecided, except in my disapprobation and dislike of what and where I now am. I have half an inclination to study law with you. It is hard to do anything with Fortune's wheel when one is at the very bottom; and the jade seems to act as if you were a drag upon her. And it is hard that you and I should be at opposite sides of the world while we are both tugging at said wheel. I sometimes think we could work to more advantage nearer together; we could work with somewhat more comfort. I am in exile here. Write me as soon as you can.

"My pleasantest thoughts are of you. Herder is as good as he can be, and you are his favourite; you will presently have the best literary society, through his means. You don't speak of Haye. Don't you go there? You had better, Winthrop; — you may find a short cut to the top of Fortune's wheel through the front door of his house. At any rate, there are two very pretty girls there and a number of other pleasant things, with which you will do well to make yourself acquainted, come thereafter what may. I wrote to them at home a week or two ago.

W. Landholm.

"P. S. Isn't Inchbald a good fellow?"

The next post went out with the answer.

"To William Landholm, Esq., North Lyttleton, Sassafras Co.

"My dear Rufus,

"Stick to your choice. Go West, and do not come here. Do not be discouraged by the fact of making money. And don't try to turn Fortune's wheel by force, for it will break your arms.

"Yours ever,

"Winthrop Landholm."

Winthrop did not tell them at home that he was giving lessons in the classics several hours daily, in order to live while he was carrying on his own studies; nor that, to keep the burden of his kind hosts, as well as his own burden, from growing any heavier, he had refused to eat with them; and was keeping himself in the most frugal manner, partly by the help of a chop-house, and partly by the countenance and support of a very humble little tin coffee-pot and saucepan in his own attic at home. Mr. Haye's front door he had never entered, and was more than indifferent where or what it led to.