“I am at cross-purposes with life, just now, sir.”

“Cross?” —­ said the naturalist.

“Winthrop is never cross,” responded Asahel from behind a thick branch of huckleberry.

“Dat is to the point!” said Mr. Herder.

“Well, speak to the point,” said Rufus.

“I think the point is now —­ or will be presently —­ to get home.”

“But to the first point —­ what should a man live for?”

“It’s against the law to commit suicide.”

“Pish!” said Rufus.

“Come tell us what you think, Wint’rop,” said Mr. Herder.

“I think, sir, I should live to be happy.”

“You do!” said the naturalist.

“And I think happiness should be sought in doing all one can, first for oneself, and then for other people.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Herder.  “I agree wiz you.”

“You are not apt to do first for yourself,” said Rufus, with a tender sort of admission-making.

“I am not sure that first for oneself,” said the naturalist musing.

“Yes sir —­ or could one ever do much for the world?”

“Dat is true; you are right!”

“Then at any rate one is to put other people’s happiness before one’s own?” said Elizabeth with a mixed expression of incredulity and discontent.

“It does not seem just reason, does it?” said Mr. Herder.

“It’s what nobody acts up to,” said Rose.

“O Miss Cadwallader,” said Asahel, —­ “mother does it always!”

For which he was rewarded with an inexpressible glance, which lit upon nothing, however, but the huckleberries.

“Is that your doctrine, Mr. Winthrop?” said Elizabeth.

“No,” he said smiling, —­ “not mine.  Will you sit a little more in the corner, Miss Elizabeth? —­”

Elizabeth took up her book again, and gave no token of attention to anything else, good or bad, till the boat neared the rocks of the landing at Shahweetah.

CHAPTER XI.

Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth. 
WORDSWORTH.

One day in September it chanced that the house was left entirely to the womenkind.  Even Asahel had been taken off by his father to help in some light matter which his strength was equal to.  Rufus and Winthrop were on the upland, busy with the fall ploughing; and it fell to little Winifred to carry them their dinner.

The doors stood open, as usual, for it was still warm weather, and the rest of the family were all scattered at their several occupations.  Miss Cadwallader on the bed, asleep; Karen somewhere in her distant premises out of hearing; Elizabeth sat with her book in the little passage-way by the open front door, screened however by another open door from the keeping-room where Mrs. Landholm sat alone at her sewing.  By and by came in Winifred, through the kitchen.  She came in and stood by the fireplace silent.