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.”