“You’d better wait and stay the evening,” said James, indifferently.  “They’ll all be back soon.”

Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic bench in the angle of the front porch.  It was a fine December evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow.  A weird, dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windless woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere meadows.  Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber was coming upon her.  Out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of many waters came up from the tawny shore.

Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was mingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers.  He was a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply-set, gentle brown eyes—­the eyes of one who, looking through pain, sees rapture beyond.

He felt very happy.  He loved his family clannishly, and he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him.  He was proud of their success and fame.  He was glad that James had prospered so well of late years.  There was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul.

He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window above the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking to Kathleen Bell.  Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to the window, and her words came down to Robert with startling clearness.

“Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I’m real proud of my nephews and nieces.  They’re a smart family.  They’ve almost all done well, and they hadn’t any of them much to begin with.  Ralph had absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire.  Their father met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and the bank failing, that he couldn’t help them any.  But they’ve all succeeded, except poor Robert—­and I must admit that he’s a total failure.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the little teacher deprecatingly.

“A total failure!” Aunt Isabel repeated her words emphatically.  She was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all a Bell from Avonlea.  “He has been a failure since the time he was born.  He is the first Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way.  I’m sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of him.  He has lived sixty years and he hasn’t done a thing worth while.  He can’t even make his farm pay.  If he’s kept out of debt it’s as much as he’s ever managed to do.”

“Some men can’t even do that,” murmured the little school teacher.  She was really so much in awe of this imperious, clever old Aunt Isabel that it was positive heroism on her part to venture even this faint protest.

“More is expected of a Monroe,” said Aunt Isabel majestically.  “Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him.”