understand how any one who could handle a gun or a musical instrument
could lay finger on a book. "Made-up things," said Abner once, with a
scornful motion towards Shakespeare.

"No more made-up than fugue," retorted Eugene, hotly; but they all
cried out on him.

This morning Madelon cast one quick glance at him as he sauntered
over to the settle with his book. Then she did not look his way
again. She worked quietly, setting the kitchen to rights.

The day was very cold; the light in the room was dim and white, the
windows were coated so thickly with the hoar-frost. Eugene kept
stirring the fire and adding sticks as he read.

Finally, Madelon had finished her work in the kitchen, and went
up-stairs. Then Eugene arose reluctantly, went out into the cold
entry, and stood by the door with his book in hand. Madelon, passing
across the landing above, looked down and saw him standing there, and
knew that what she suspected was true--that her brother was mounting
guard over her lest she leave the house.

She finished her work in the chamber, and came down-stairs with some
knitting-work in hand. She seated herself quietly in her own
cushioned rocking-chair, and fell to work with yarn and clicking
needles, like any peaceful housewife. She knitted and Eugene read,
bending his handsome dark face, smiling with pleasure, over his
Shakespeare book. This fierce winter day he was reading "A
Midsummer-Night's Dream," and letting his fancy revel with
Shakespeare's fairies in an enchanted summer wood. He was, however,