“Poor Emily Minot,” I said, “you must condole with yourself unless you tell Halbert,” and I resolved to do this at the first opportunity.

Clara was delighted at Mr. Benton’s absence.  She went singing about our house all the time, and the roses actually tried to find her cheeks.  Our days seemed to grow more filled and the hearts and hands were well occupied.

Hal was busy with his work and hopes, and I had been over with him to see Mary, and had looked with them at the picture of their coming days.  I enjoyed it greatly.  They were not going to be in haste, and Mary’s father was to talk with our people concerning the best mode of beginning life.  I think some people end it just where they hoped to begin.  Mary had a step-mother, who was thrifty, and that was all; her heart had never warmed to infant caresses, and she would never know the love that can be felt only for one’s own.  It was sad for her, and I can see now how she suffered for this well-spring of joy which had never been found.  To Mary she was kind, but she could not give her the love she needed.  Mary was timid.  Hal always called her his “fawn.”  It was a good name.  He made a beautiful statuette of her little self and christened it Love’s Fawn, and while he never really meant it should go into strange hands, it crossed the Atlantic before he did, and received high commendation—­beautiful Mary Snow.

Instead of my visit helping to open my secret to Hal, it seemed to close the door upon it, and only a sigh came to my lips when I essayed to speak of it.  Once he asked me tenderly as we walked home: 

“It cannot be our happiness that hurts you, Emily?”

“No—­no,” I said, “it gives me great joy to see you so happy.”

I told mother when he wished, and a talk ensued between her and father, then a conference of families, and a conclusion that the marriage which was to occur with the waning of September, should be followed, as the two desired, by their going to housekeeping.

Father had a plot of thirty acres in trust for Hal, and he proposed to exchange some territory with him, that his house might be nearer ours.  Hal was named for Grandfather Minot, and was a year old when he died.  In a codicil to the will, grandfather had bequeathed to Hal these thirty acres, which was more than half woodland.  Hal was glad to make an exchange with father, and get a few acres near home, while he would still have nice woodland left.  Acres of land then did not seem to be worth so much to us, and it was a poor farmer in our section, who had not forty or more acres, for our town was not all level plains, and every land-owner must perforce have more or less of hill and stubble.  These new ideas of building and “fresh housekeeping” as Aunt Hildy said, gave much to think about, and while Clara and I were talking together with great earnestness one afternoon in April, we were surprised by a letter of appeal from Louis.  We, I say, for Clara read to me every letter he sent her, and this began as follows: