Soon Henry took a candle, and the two young men retired.  They paused a moment in the little parlor.

“Was there ever such a singular and brilliant compound?” said Ranney.  “What a power of expression he has! and I see that he generally knows where he is going to hit.  If you can hold him till he masters the law, he will be a power before juries.”

“I think so too,” said Henry; “but he must be a good lawyer before he can be a good advocate,—­though that isn’t the popular idea.”

“Let him work,” said Ranney.  “He will shed his flightier notions as a young bird moults its down.”

How kind to have said this to Bart!  Oh, what a mistake, that just praise is injurious!  How many weary, fainting, doubting young hearts have famished and died for a kind word of encouragement!

When Bart returned to the sitting-room, his mother and younger brothers had retired.

“I am scorned of women and misunderstood of men—­even by my own brother,” he said bitterly to himself.  “Let me live to change this, and then let me die.”

The old melancholy chords vibrated, and he went to his little attic, remembering with anguish the stream of nonsense and folly he had poured forth, and thought of the laughter he had provoked as so much deserved rebuke; and he determined never to utter another word that should provoke a smile.  He would feed and sleep, and grow stupid and stolid, heavy and dull, and bring forth emptiness and nothings with solemn effort and dignified sweatings.

Early on the morrow he was away to the camp, to renew the fires under his sugar-kettles.  The cool, fresh air of the woods refreshed and restored his spirits somewhat.  He placed on the breakfast-table two bouquets of wood-flowers, and met his guests with the easy grace and courtesy of an accomplished host; and both felt for the first time the charm of his manner, and recognized that it sprung from a superior nature.

As they were about to rise from the breakfast-table, “Gentlemen,” said he, “Miss Kate Fisher gives, this afternoon, a little sugar party, out at her father’s camp.  Henry, she sent over an invitation specially for you two, with one to me, for courtesy.  I cannot go; but you must.  You will meet, Mr. Ranney, several young ladies, any one of whom will convert you to my creed of love and poetry, and two or three young, men stupid enough to master the law,”—­with a bright smile.  “I promised you would both go.  The walk is not more than a mile, the day a marvel right out of Paradise, and you both need the exercise, and to feel that it is spring.”

“And why don’t you go, Barton?” asked Henry.

“Well, you are not a stranger to any whom you will meet, and don’t need me.  In the first place, I must remain and gather the sap, and can’t go; in the second, I don’t want to go, and won’t; and in the third, I have several good reasons for not going,”—­all very bright, and in good humor.