ms and
bacon, some very lively chickens, and baskets heaped with the grapes and
pears for which the Clove was famous.

"Too much, Salome? I think not. Not judging by the samples of appetites
I've seen this noon. Say nothing. Thee knows how gladly I give it, and
would give much more. Here, Amy, is a little letter for thee. I wish
thee to keep it without reading until--" he hesitated, looked at her
gravely, and finished his sentence--"until thy own heart tells thee that
the right time is come. For Hallam, too, there is a bit of writing, and
that he may read at any time he chooses."

"That's right now, then," laughed the lad, and eagerly tore the sealed
envelope.

Adam Burn winced a little at the ragged edge this made on the paper, for
he was a careful person and hated slovenliness. But he could not refrain
a smile as he saw the expression of disappointment growing upon
Hallam's face, where he sat upon black Balaam, his crutches crossed
before him, looking down at the open sheet he had found. The envelope
dropped to the ground, and Amy picked it up; but her brother did not
show her the message he had received, and she was puzzled to hear their
old friend say:--

"The truth which I have written there is better for thee than a fortune,
Hallam."

"It may be, but, under the circumstances, I'd rather have the fortune."

"Thee'll find it, lad, never fear. Thee'll find it."

Amy thrust the envelope into her pocket, along with the letter Adam had
given her, and a moment later they all passed out of the yard, and
turned toward the knoll of Bareacre. The last glimpse they had of their
friend showed him standing in the sunshine, leaning upon his cane, and
gazing after them as they vanished from his sight.

"There is something different about that blessed old man to-day," said
Amy to Hallam, riding with him beside the carryall.

"Well, I suppose it makes him feel badly to know we are not going back
to Fairacres. He always does feel other people's troubles more than his
own."

"What was in your letter, Hal?"

"Humph! It couldn't be called a letter. From anybody else I would have
thought it insulting."

"Not from him, dear. He couldn't insult anybody. He'd not have the
heart to do it. Do you mind telling?"

"Not a bit. I dare say you could take example by it too. For it was a
sort of sermon in few words,--'The perfection of a man is the stature of
his soul.' That's all."

"I don't see yet just what it means, but I thi