There were some breaks, but not many.  Now and then a swift and sweet run home, to live for a moment in the midst of all this preparing to live; to rest among the home hearts; to breathe a few breaths in absolute freedom; to exchange Mr. De Wort’s dusty office for the bright little keeping-room of the farmhouse, and forget the business of the hard brick and stone city under the shadow or the sunshine that rested on Wut-a-qut-o.  Then Winthrop threw off his broadcloth coat and was a farmer again.  Then Mrs. Landholm’s brow laid down its care, and shewed to her son only her happy face.  Then poor Winifred was strong and well and joyous, in the spite of sickness and weakness and nervous ail.  And then also, Clam sprang round with great energy, and was as Karen averred, “fifty times worse and better than ever.”

But all faded and died away, save the sweet memory and refreshment; that staid yet a little while.  Winthrop went back to his musty parchments and lonely attic; and the little family at home gathered itself together for a new season of duty-doing, and hope, and looking forward.  The sunshine and the shadow slept upon Wut-a-qut-o, as it did a little while ago; but neither sunshine nor shadow was the same thing now, for Winthrop was away.

He had lost perhaps less than they; though the balance was struck pretty fair.  But he was actively bending every energy to the accomplishment of a great object.  The intensity of effort might swallow up some other things, and the consciousness of sure and growing success might make amends for them.  Besides, he had been long fighting the battle of life away from home, and was accustomed to it; they never got accustomed to it.  Every fresh coming home was the pledge of a fresh parting, the pleasure of the one not more sure than the pain of the other.  If Winthrop had changed, in all these years and goings and comings, it might have been different; if they could have found that their lost treasure was less true or strong or fair, than when they first let it go.  But he was so exactly the same Winthrop that they had been sorry for that first time, that they could only be sorry again with the same sorrow; —­ the same, but for the lost novelty of that first time, and the added habit of patience, and the nearer hope of his and their reward.

So through the first winter and the first summer, and the second winter and the second summer, of his city apprenticeship, Winthrop wrought on; now with a cold room and little fire in his chimney, and now with the sun beating upon the roof, and the only hope of night’s sea-breeze.  But the farmer’s boy had known cold and heat a great while ago, and he could bear both.  He could partly forget both, sometimes in literary unbending with Mr. Herder and his friends; and at other times in a solitary walk on the Green overlooking the bay, to catch the sea-breeze more fresh and soon, and look up the river channel towards where the shadows lay upon Wut-a-qut-o.  And sometimes in a visit at Mr. Haye’s.