oor.
David sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We weren't
expecting you to-night."

"Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. "It's bully good to
see you again. No, I didn't expect to get up to-night, but there
wasn't much doing at college and I didn't get my invite, so I thought
I might as well come on home. Where are the folks?"

"Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little while. Sit
down, you must be tired."

Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of comfort. "You're
right I am. I tell you it's hard work to walk a mile and a half with a
suit-case. And all the time you were just sitting comfortably out here
on the veranda listening to the katydids." He drew out his pipe and
lit it. "Well, how are all the folks? Same as usual?"

"I guess so. Father's failing a little, and mother worries a good
deal, but keeps pretty well."

"That's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of us at home to
look after things. Lord, but I've often imagined you outdoors driving
around in the open air and enjoying life when I've been plugging up
for some beastly exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc., is
Janet Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?"

"No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a minute
to-night, and she invited us up to supper there on Sunday."

"Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed to see the little
schoolma'am again. She's a slick little girl--at least she used to be.
In my opinion she's wasting her time up here in the woods. Why, that
girl's got ability, and I call it a shame for her to bury herself in
the country just for her mother's account. But say, isn't that a wagon
coming?"

The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting for the buggy to
draw up. When Mr. and Mrs. Waring were out, David took the horse to
the barn and unharnessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, and
without saying anything more than "Good-night," went up to his room.

II

It was late in the afternoon of an August day. From the high gable
windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air in
a long, straight shaft and rested on the lower part of the haymow,
gilding every dry wisp with a temporary and fatuous splendor.
Elsewhere in the barn it was already half dark. On one side the hay
rose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished
dimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, five of