the hard brick and stone
city under the shadow or the sunshine that rested on Wut-a-
qut-o. Then Winthrop threw off his broadcloth coat and was a
farmer again. Then Mrs. Landholm's brow laid down its care,
and shewed to her son only her happy face. Then poor Winifred
was strong and well and joyous, in the spite of sickness and
weakness and nervous ail. And then also, Clam sprang round
with great energy, and was as Karen averred, "fifty times
worse and better than ever."

But all faded and died away, save the sweet memory and
refreshment; that staid yet a little while. Winthrop went back
to his musty parchments and lonely attic; and the little
family at home gathered itself together for a new season of
duty-doing, and hope, and looking forward. The sunshine and
the shadow slept upon Wut-a-qut-o, as it did a little while
ago; but neither sunshine nor shadow was the same thing now,
for Winthrop was away.

He had lost perhaps less than they; though the balance was
struck pretty fair. But he was actively bending every energy
to the accomplishment of a great object. The intensity of
effort might swallow up some other things, and the
consciousness of sure and growing success might make amends
for them. Besides, he had been long fighting the battle of
life away from home, and was accustomed to it; they never got
accustomed to it. Every fresh coming home was the pledge of a
fresh parting, the pleasure of the one not more sure than the
pain of the other. If Winthrop had changed, in all these years
and goings and comings, it might have been different; if they
could have found that their lost treasure was less true or
strong or fair, than when they first let it go. But he was so
exactly the same Winthrop that they had been sorry for that
first time, that they could only be sorry again with the same
sorrow; -- the same, but for the lost novelty of that first
time, and the added habit of patience, and the nearer hope of
his and their reward.

So through the first winter and the first summer, and the
second winter and the second summer, of his city
apprenticeship, Winthrop wrought on; now with a cold room and
little fire in his chimney, and now with the sun beating upon
the roof, and the only hope of night's sea-breeze. But the
farmer's boy had known cold and heat a great while ago, and he
could bear both. He could partly forget both, sometimes in
literary unbending with Mr. Herder and his friends; and at
other times in a so