it ran. The one swept joyfully
on to its appointed course: the other--was what Heaven made it, abode
where Heaven placed it, and likewise fulfilled its end.

Coming back out of the little wood, I took John a new way I had
discovered, through the prettiest undulating meadow, half-field,
half-orchard, where trees loaded with ripening cider apples and green
crabs made a variety among the natural foresters. Under one of these,
as we climbed the slope--for field, beech-wood, and common formed a
gradual ascent--we saw a vacant table laid.

"A pretty piece of rusticity--domestic Arcadia on a small scale," said
John; "I should like to invite myself to tea with them. Who can they
be?"

"Probably visitors. Resident country-folks like their meals best under
a decent roof-tree. I should not wonder if this were not one of Mr.
March's vagaries."

"Don't say vagaries--he is an old man."

"Don't be reproachful--I shall say nought against him. Indeed, I have
no opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the house."

Sure enough they were--Miss March helping her father across the uneven
bit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely at that
gate we all four met.

"'Tis useless to escape them," whispered I to John.

"I do not wish--why should I?" he answered, and held the gate open for
the father and daughter to go through. She looked up and acknowledged
him, smiling. I thought that smile and his courteous, but far less
frank, response to it, would have been all the greeting; but no! Mr.
March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened up. He stopped.

"Mr. Halifax, I believe?"

John bowed.

They stood a moment looking at one another; the tall, stalwart young
man, so graceful and free in bearing, and the old man, languid, sickly,
prematurely broken down.

"Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I detected
something more than curiosity--something of the lingering pensiveness
with which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John--as if the
lad reminded him of some one he knew. "Sir, I have to thank you--"

"Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are better to-day?"

Mr. March assented: but John's countenance apparently interested him
so much that he forgot his usual complainings. "My daughter tells me
you are our neighbours--I am happy to have such friendly ones. My
dear," in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, "I think your poor
brother Walte