During the course of the conversation the streak of white in the west had turned to gray and the night was rapidly closing down.  The girl jumped to the ground; “Good-night,” she said, as she started away, “I’ll see you both Sunday,—­sure, now!”

David picked up his milk-pails and completed the work of the day.  A little later he had seated himself on the porch.  He felt discontented and unhappy though he could not have told exactly why.  But one thing was evident—­he was not anticipating Loren’s home-coming with much pleasure.  He felt, in fact, a certain reluctance, or rather timidity, about meeting this younger brother of his who knew so much and talked so much, and seemed to enjoy himself so thoroughly.  He anticipated keenly the difference that two years must have brought between them, and dreaded the time when they should be put side by side once more and compared.  For David, too—­the older of the boys by a year—­had expected to go to college and till the time came had never doubted the expediency of it.  But, as is so often the case, that merry-making force in human affairs that we call Circumstance—­or is it Providence?—­had it fixed up otherwise.  Mr. Waring had suddenly lighted upon chronic poor health as a daily companion on the walk of life, and his time was so much engrossed therewith that David seemed called upon—­nay, impelled—­to become the main-stay of the farm; Loren was still too young; financial affairs were far from encouraging; Mrs. Waring looked constantly to her older son for advice and assistance; in short, the golden gate of the future seemed to be drawing to, without any voluntary effort of his own.  Yet he had often recalled since then the night—­that breathless night in August four years ago—­when he and his dearest ambition had had their last battle, and he had forced it to cover.  “Loren shall have the best chance I can give him,” he had said to himself, with his teeth gritted, “and God help me to stick it out here on the farm!” Thus it was, that, as usual, Dame Circumstance had won out by a good margin.

And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was coming home for the summer.  Loren had learned a vast deal at college; among other scraps of intelligence he had discovered that his family were a little outlandish, and that Melton was altogether too slow a place for a rational being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a few summer weeks.  His latest letter, received only yesterday, was a characteristic one, and David had unintentionally resented its tone of breezy self-assurance:  “...  I suppose I shall show up at fair Melton,” it had read, “about 2:35 on Saturday, unless, that is, I happen to get a few days’ invite to New York.  Of course David will be down to meet me and bring my trunk up.”  The words were innocent enough, but they had insinuated their way into his mind and rankled there like an evil thing.  “Yes, of course I will be down,” he said to himself somewhat bitterly; “of course I will, that’s to be expected.  And bring up his trunk for him; yes, that’s just what I like—­the chance to fetch Loren’s trunk, and I like his way of taking it all for granted, too.”