morning till they met at supper he had frequent chances of seeing
her; but no moments in her company were comparable to those when,
her arm in his, and her light step flying to keep time with his long
stride, they walked back through the night to the farm. He had taken
to the girl from the first day, when he had driven over to the Flats
to meet her, and she had smiled and waved to him from the train,
crying out, "You must be Ethan!" as she jumped down with her
bundles, while he reflected, looking over her slight person: "She
don't look much on housework, but she ain't a fretter, anyhow." But
it was not only that the coming to his house of a bit of hopeful
young life was like the lighting of a fire on a cold hearth. The
girl was more than the bright serviceable creature he had thought
her. She had an eye to see and an ear to hear: he could show her
things and tell her things, and taste the bliss of feeling that all
he imparted left long reverberations and echoes he could wake at
will.

It was during their night walks back to the farm that he felt most
intensely the sweetness of this communion. He had always been more
sensitive than the people about him to the appeal of natural beauty.
His unfinished studies had given form to this sensibility and even
in his unhappiest moments field and sky spoke to him with a deep and
powerful persuasion. But hitherto the emotion had remained in him as
a silent ache, veiling with sadness the beauty that evoked it. He
did not even know whether any one else in the world felt as he did,
or whether he was the sole victim of this mournful privilege. Then
he learned that one other spirit had trembled with the same touch of
wonder: that at his side, living under his roof and eating his
bread, was a creature to whom he could say: "That's Orion down
yonder; the big fellow to the right is Aldebaran, and the bunch of