he farmer, half frightened by Anthony's dolorous shake of his head,
exclaimed: "What's the matter, man?"

"How proud I should be if only you was in a way to bank at Boyne's!"

"Ah!" went the farmer in his turn, and he plunged his chin deep in his
neckerchief.

"Perhaps some of your family will, some day, brother William John."

"Happen, some of my family do, brother Anthony!"

"Will is what I said, brother William John; if good gals, and civil, and
marry decently--eh?" and he faced about to Rhoda who was walking with
Miss Wicklow. "What does she look so down about, my dear? Never be down.
I don't mind you telling your young man, whoever he is; and I'd like him
to be a strapping young six-footer I've got in my eye, who farms. What
does he farm with to make farming answer now-a-days? Why, he farms with
brains. You'll find that in my last week's Journal, brother William
John, and thinks I, as I conned it--the farmer ought to read that! You
may tell any young man you like, my dear, that your old uncle's fond of
ye."

On their arrival home, Mrs. Wicklow met them with a letter in her hand.
It was for Rhoda from Dahlia, saying that Dahlia was grieved to the
heart to have missed her dear father and her darling sister. But her
husband had insisted upon her going out to make particular purchases,
and do a dozen things; and he was extremely sorry to have been obliged
to take her away, but she hoped to see her dear sister and her father
very, very soon. She wished she were her own mistress that she might run
to them, but men when they are husbands require so much waiting on that
she could never call five minutes her own. She would entreat them to
call tomorrow, only she would then be moving to her new lodgings. "But,
oh! my dear, my blessed Rhoda!" the letter concluded, "do keep fast in
your heart that I do love you so, and pray that we may meet soon, as I
pray it every night and all day long. Beg father to stop till we meet.
Things will soon be arranged. They must. Oh! oh, my Rhoda, love! how
handsome you have grown. It is very well to be fair for a time, but the
brunettes have the happiest lot. They last, and when we blonde ones cry
or grow thin, oh! what objects we become!"

There were some final affectionate words, but no further explanations.

The wrinkles again settled on the farmer's mild, uncomplaining forehead.

Rhoda said: "Let us wait, father."

When alone, she locked the letter against her heart, as to suck th