likings were often much at variance, and the issues, to the same argument, were not always the same with each; on one point, the delight of communication, they were always at one.  Clearly Rufus had no love for the axe, nor for the scythe, but he could endure both while talking with Winthrop; though many a time it would happen that axe and scythe would be lost in the interest of other things; and leaning on his snathe, or flinging his axe into a cut, Rufus would stand to argue, or demonstrate, or urge, somewhat just then possessing all his faculties; till a quiet reminder of his brother’s would set him to laughing and to work again; and sweetly moved the scythes through the grass, and cheerily rung the axes, for the winrows were side by side and the ringing answered from tree to tree.  And the inside of home gave Rufus pleasure too.  Yet there were often times, —­ when talk was at a standstill, and mother’s “good things” were not on the table, with a string of happy faces round it, and neither axe nor scythe kept him from a present feeling of inaction, —­ that the shadow reappeared on Rufus’s brow.  He would sit in the chimney corner, looking far down into the hearth-stones, or walk moodily up and down the floor, behind the backs of the other people, with a face that seemed to belong to some waste corner of society.

“My son,” said Mrs. Landholm, one evening when Mr. Landholm was out and the little ones in bed, —­ “what makes you wear such a sober face?”

“Nothing, mother, —­ only that I am doing nothing.”

“Are you sure of that?  Your father was saying that he never saw anybody sow broadcast with a finer hand —­ he said you had done a grand day’s work to day.”

An impatiently drawn breath was the answer.

“Rufus, nobody is doing nothing who is doing all that God gives him leave to do.”

“No mother —­ and nobody ever will do much who does not hold that leave is given him to make of himself the utmost that he can.”

“And what is that?” she said quietly.

Nobody spoke; and then Rufus said, not quietly,

“Depends on circumstances, ma’am; —­ some one thing and some another.”

“My son Rufus, —­ we all have the same interest at heart with you.”

“I am sorry for it, ma’am; I would rather be disappointed alone.”

“I hope there will be no disappointment —­ I do not look for any, in the end.  Cannot you bear a little present disappointment?”

“I do bear it, ma’am.”

“But Winthrop has the very same things at stake as you have, and I do not see him wear such a disconsolate face, —­ ever.”

“Winthrop —­” the speaker began, and paused, every feature of his fine face working with emotion.  His hearers waited, but whatever lay behind, nothing more of his meaning came out.

“Winthrop what? —­” said his brother laughing.

“You are provokingly cool!” said the other, his eye changing again.