"I won't," said Amabel, with a wise air.

"You know father had set his heart on somethin' pretty different for
you," said Fanny.

Fanny hushed her voice as Andrew came out of the dining-room,
staggering a little as if the light blinded him. His nervous
strength of the morning had passed and left him exhausted. He moved
and stood with a downward lope of every muscle, expressing
unutterable patience, which had passed beyond rebellion and
questioning.

He stood before Ellen like some old, spent horse. He was expecting
to hear something about the shop--expecting, as it were, a touch on
a sore, and he waited for it meekly.

Ellen turned her lovely, glowing face towards him.

"Father," she said, as if nothing out of the common had happened,
"are you going down-town to-night?"

Andrew brightened a little. "I can if you want anything, Ellen," he
said.

"Well, I don't want you to go on purpose, but I do want a book from
the library."

"I'd just as soon go as not, Ellen," said Andrew.

"It'll do him good," whispered Fanny, as she passed Ellen, carrying
the dish of stew to the dining-room.

"Well, then, I'll give you my card after supper," said Ellen.
"Supper is ready now, isn't it, mother? I'm as hungry as a bear."

Andrew, when he was seated at the table and was ladling out the
stew, had still that air of hopeless and defenceless apology towards
life, but he held his head higher, and his frown of patient gloom
had relaxed.

Then Ellen said something else. "Maybe I can write a book some
time," said she.

A sudden flash illumined Andrew's face. It was like the visible
awakening of hope and ambition.

"I don't see why you can't," he said, eagerly.

"Maybe she can," said Fanny. "Give her some more of the potatoes,
Andrew."

"I'll have plenty of time after--evenings," said Ellen.

"I guess lots of folks write books that sell, and sell well, that
don't have any more talent than you," said Andrew. "Only think how
they praised your valedictory."

"Well, it can't do any harm to try," said Ellen, "and you could copy
it for me, couldn't you, father? Your writing is so fine, it would
be as good as a typewriter."

"Of course I can," said Andrew.

When Andrew went down to the library, passing along the drenched
streets, seeing the lamps through shifting veils of heavy mist, he
was as full of enthusiasm over Ellen's book as he had been over the
gold-mine. The heart of a man is always ready to admit a ray of
sunshi