m brow and lip; but when she left the room he left
it; and wandering down to some hiding place on the rocky
shore, where only the silent cedars stood witnesses, he wept
there till his strong frame shook, with what he no more than
the rocks would shew anywhere else. It never was shewn. He was
just as he had been. Nobody guessed, unless his mother, the
feeling that had wrought and was working within him; and she
only from general knowledge of his nature. But the purpose of
life had grown yet stronger and struck yet deeper roots
instead of being shaken by this storm. The day of his setting
off for Mannahatta was not once changed after it had been once
fixed upon.

And it came. Almost at the end of November; a true child of
the month; it was dark, chill, gloomy. The wind bore little
foretokens of rain in every puff that made its way up the
river, slowly, as if the sea had charged it too heavily, or as
if it came through the fringe of the low grey cloud which hung
upon the tops of the mountains. But nobody spoke of Winthrop's
staying his journey. Perhaps everybody thought, that the day
before, and the night before, and so much of the morning, it
were better not to go over again.

"Hi!" sighed old Karen, as she took the coffee-pot off the
hearth and wiped the ashes from it, -- "it's a heavy place for
our feet, just this here; -- I wonder why the Lord sends 'em.
_He_ knows."

"Why he sends what, Karen?" said Winifred, taking the coffee-
pot from her, and waiting to hear the answer.

"Oh go 'long, dear," said the old woman; -- "I was quarrelling
with the Lord's doings, that's all."

"_He_ knows!" repeated Winnie, turning away and bending her face
down till hot tears fell on the cover of the coffee-pot. She
stopped at the door of the keeping-room and fought the tears
with her little hand desperately, for they were too ready to
come; once and again the hand was passed hard over cheeks and
eyes, before it would do and she could open the door.

"Well, mother," said Mr. Landholm, coming back from a look at
the weather, -- "let's see what comfort can be got out of
breakfast!"

None, that morning. It was but a sham, the biscuits and
coffee. They were all feeding on the fruits of life-trials,
struggles and cares, past and coming; and though some wild
grown flowers of hope mingled their sweetness with the harsh
things, they could not hide nor smother the taste of them.
That taste was in Mr. Landholm's coffee; the way in whi