hind him, walked twice or thrice the length of the
grass-plot.

"Theer's no fool like an old fool," he said, when he paused at his
nephew's side. "Theer's nothing as is longed for like that as can niver
be got at. Good-day, lad. Tek her away and niver let anybody maul her i'
that fashion again, poor thing. I'll rest a while. Good-day, Reuben."

Reuben thus dismissed shook hands and went his way, bearing his uncle's
gift with him. His way took him to Fuller's house, and finding Ruth
alone there he displayed his treasure and spent an hour in talk. If he
had said then and there what he wanted to say, the historic Muse must
needs have rested with him. But since, in spite of the promptings of his
own desire, the favorableness of the time, and the delightful confusions
of silence which overcame both Ruth and himself in the course of his
visit, he said no more than any enthusiast in music might have said to
any pretty girl who was disposed to listen to him, the historic Muse is
free to follow Joseph Beaker, with whom she has present business.

In the ordinary course of things Joseph would have taken the shortest
cut to his patron's house, but to-day neither the weight of the
barrow-load, which was considerable, nor Joseph's objection to labor,
which was strongly rooted, could prevent him from taking the lengthier
route, which lay along the village main street, and therefore took him
where he had most chance of being observed. He made but slow progress,
being constantly stopped by his admirers, and making a practice of
sitting down outside any house the doors of which happened to be closed,
and there waiting to be observed. Despite the lingering character of
his journey he had already passed the last house but one--Miss Blythe's
cottage--and was forecasting in the dim twilight of his mind the
impression he would make upon its inmate, when the little old maid
herself went by without a glance.

"Arternoon, mum," said Joseph, setting down the wheelbarrow, and
spitting upon his hands to show how little he was conscious of the glory
of his own appearance.

"Good-afternoon," said the old maid. "Ah! Joseph Beaker?" To Joseph's
great disappointment she took no notice of his attire, but her eye
happening to alight upon the books, she approached and turned one of
them over. Poor Joseph was not accustomed to read the signs of emotion,
or he might have noticed that the hand that turned the leaves trembled
curiously. "What are these?"