“I shall marry Charlotte, we shall live here together all our lives, and die here,” thought Barnabas, as he went up the hill.  “I shall lie in my coffin in the north room, and it will all be over,” but his heart leaped with joy.  He stepped out proudly like a soldier in a battalion, he threw back his shoulders in his Sunday coat.

The yellow glow was paling in the west, the evening air was like a cold breath in his face.  He could see the firelight flickering upon the kitchen wall of the Barnard house as he drew near.  He came up into the yard and caught a glimpse of a fair head in the ruddy glow.  There was a knocker on the door; he raised it gingerly and let it fall.  It made but a slight clatter, but a woman’s shadow moved immediately across the yard outside, and Barnabas heard the inner door open.  He threw open the outer one himself, and Charlotte stood there smiling, and softly decorous.  Neither of them spoke.  Barnabas glanced at the inner door to see if it were closed, then he caught Charlotte’s hands and kissed her.

“You shouldn’t do so, Barnabas,” whispered Charlotte, turning her face away.  She was as tall as Barnabas, and as handsome.

“Yes, I should,” persisted Barnabas, all radiant, and his face pursued hers around her shoulder.

“It’s pretty cold out, ain’t it?” said Charlotte, in a chiding voice which she could scarcely control.

“I’ve been in to see our house.  Give me one more kiss.  Oh, Charlotte!”

“Charlotte!” cried a deep voice, and the lovers started apart.

“I’m coming, father,” Charlotte cried out.  She opened the door and went soberly into the kitchen, with Barnabas at her heels.  Her father, mother, and Aunt Sylvia Crane sat there in the red gleam of the firelight and gathering twilight.  Sylvia sat a little behind the others, and her face in her white cap had the shadowy delicacy of one of the flowering apple sprays outside.

“How d’ye do?” said Barnabas in a brave tone which was slightly aggressive.  Charlotte’s mother and aunt responded rather nervously.

“How’s your mother, Barnabas?” inquired Mrs. Barnard.

“She’s pretty well, thank you.”

Charlotte pulled forward a chair for her lover; he had just seated himself, when Cephas Barnard spoke in a voice as sudden and gruff as a dog’s bark.  Barnabas started, and his chair grated on the sanded floor.

“Light the candle, Charlotte,” said Cephas, and Charlotte obeyed.  She lighted the candle on the high shelf, then she sat down next Barnabas.  Cephas glanced around at them.  He was a small man, with a thin face in a pale film of white locks and beard, but his black eyes gleamed out of it with sharp fixedness.  Barnabas looked back at him unflinchingly, and there was a curious likeness between the two pairs of black eyes.  Indeed, there had been years ago a somewhat close relationship between the Thayers and the Barnards, and it was not strange if one common note was repeated generations hence.