“Every shingle on the house paid for,” said Aunt Hildy; “aint that the beginning that ought to end well?”

And now the road of the future lay, as a fair meadowland, whose flowers and grasses should be gathered through the years.  Truly life is strangely mixed.

The look of perplexing anxiety had vanished from my father’s face, for with Hal’s prospects his own had grown bright, and you cannot know how Clara lifted him along, as it were; paying well and promptly and saving in so many ways, was a wondrous help to a farmer’s family.  There was also the prospect of a new street being opened through the centre of the town, and if my father wished he could sell building lots on one side of it, for it would run along the edge of his land.

“Trouble don’t never come single-handed, neither does prosperity, Mr. Minot,” said Aunt Hildy.

“Love’s Fawn” was a famous little housekeeper, everything was in good order, and I certainly found a well-spring of joy in the society of these two.  If Mary needed any extra help, Hal said, “Emily will do it.”  This was a very welcome change from the old saying.

Ben was a daily visitor, and spoke of sister Mary with great pride.  He was a good boy and willing.  Hal felt anxious to help him, if he desired it, by giving him more schooling, but he was a farmer born, and his greatest ambition was to own a farm and have a saw mill.  He went to the village school, and had as good an education as that could give, for he was not dull.  I was glad for his sake he liked farming; it seemed to me a true farmer ought to be happy.  Golden and crimson leaves were fluttering down from the forest trees, for October had come upon us and nearly gone, and while all prospects for living were full of cheer, I felt a great wonder creeping over me, and with it, fear.  Louis had said no word to me as yet, and could it be he had forgotten the year was at an end?  Surely not.  Could his mind have changed?  Oh, how this fear troubled me!  He was as kind as ever, but he said much less to me, and seemed like one pre-occupied.  One chance remark of Clara’s brought the color to my cheeks, as we sit together.

“Louis, my dear boy, what is it?  A shadow crossed your face just then.”

He looked surprised, and only half answered: 

“The shadow of yourself.  I was thinking about you.”

Mr. Benton did not talk of leaving us; he had some unfinished pieces, and my father had said: 

“Remain as long as you please, if my wife is willing.”

After Hal left, I felt his studio marred by Mr. Benton’s presence, for he had become a perfect torture to me, and I began to believe he delighted in it, secretly.  Then again, I had the room to attend to, and I must in consequence be annoyed.  Of this I was tired, and when day after day passed and brought no word from Louis, save in common with the rest, I said, hopelessly: 

“Let it go.  I will try to love no one but father and mother and Clara and Hal, and oh, dear! when shall I ever be ready to say, ’Now Clara, let me help you’?”