than
once,--Silverthorn bitterly reproached himself, in her presence, for
trusting so entirely to another man's energies. But Ida put up her
hands beseechingly, looking at him with a devoted faith.

"No, John!" she cried. "There is nothing wrong about it. If you were
other than you are, I might not wish it to be so. But you,--you are
different from other men; there is something finer about you, and you
are not meant for battling your way. But, when once you get this
money, you will give all your time to inventing, or writing, and then
people will find out what you are!"

There was something strange and pathetic in their relation to each
other, now. Silverthorn seemed nervous and weary; he looked as if he
were growing old, even with that soft yellow beard and his pale brown
hair still unchanged (for he was only twenty-eight). His spirits were
capricious; sometimes bounding high with hope, and, at others, utterly
despondent. Ida, meantime, had reached a full development; she was
twenty-two, fresh, strong, and self-reliant. When they were together,
she had the air of caring for him as for an invalid.

Suddenly, one day, at the close of Vibbard's six years' absence,
Silverthorn came running from the mill during working-hours, and burst
into the superintendent's cottage with an open letter in his hand,
calling aloud for Ida.

"He is coming! He is coming!" cried he, breathless, but with a harsh
excitement, as if he had been flying from an angry pursuer.

"Who? What has happened?" returned Ida, in alarm.

"Vibbard."

But he looked so wild and distraught, that Ida could not understand.

"Vibbard?" she repeated. Then,--with an amazed apprehension which came
swiftly upon her,--shutting both hands tight as if to strengthen
herself, and bringing them close together over her bosom: "Have you
quarreled with him?"

"Quarreled?" echoed Silverthorn, looking back her amazement. "Why, do
you suppose the world has come to an end? Don't you know we would
sooner die than quarrel?"

"Vibbard--coming!" repeated Ida, as she caught sight of the letter.
"Yes; now, I see."

"But, doesn't it make you happy?" asked her lover, suddenly annoyed at
her cool reception of the news.

"I don't know," she answered, pensively. "You have startled me so.
Besides,--why should it make me happy?" A singular confusion seemed to
have come over her mind. "Of course," she added, after a moment, "I am
happy, because he's your friend."

"But,--the mo