nstincts
came with every morning's sun, and new conclusions were reached with
every evening's twilight. Yet as the wheat harvest drew towards the end,
he felt that he must leave the place. The month of absence had gone by,
he scarce knew how. He was free to return home, and, though he might
offer to bridge over the gap between wheat and oats, as he had already
done between hay and wheat, he imagined the family might hesitate to
accept such an offer. Moreover, this life at Susan's side was fast
growing to be a pain, unless he could assure himself that it would be so
forever.

They were in the wheat-field, busy with the last sheaves; she raking and
he binding. The farmer and younger children had gone to the barn with a
load. Jacob was working silently and steadily, but when they had reached
the end of a row, he stopped, wiped his wet brow, and suddenly said,
"Susan, I suppose to-day finishes my work here."

"Yes," she answered very slowly.

"And yet I'm very sorry to go."

"I--WE don't want you to go, if we could help it."

Jacob appeared to struggle with himself. He attempted to speak. "If I
could--" he brought out, and then paused. "Susan, would you be glad if I
came back?"

His eyes implored her to read his meaning. No doubt she read it
correctly, for her face flushed, her eyelids fell, and she barely
murmured, "Yes, Jacob."

"Then I'll come!" he cried; "I'll come and help you with the oats. Don't
talk of pay! Only tell me I'll be welcome! Susan, don't you believe I'll
keep my word?"

"I do indeed," said she, looking him firmly in the face.

That was all that was said at the time; but the two understood each
other tolerably well.

On the afternoon of the second day, Jacob saw again the lonely house of
his father. His journey was made, yet, if any of the neighbors had seen
him, they would never have believed that he had come back rich.

Samuel Flint turned away to hide a peculiar smile when he saw his son;
but little was said until late that evening, after Harry and Sally
had left. Then he required and received an exact account of Jacob's
experience during his absence. After hearing the story to the end, he
said, "And so you love this Susan Meadows?"

"I'd--I'd do any thing to be with her."

"Are you afraid of her?"

"No!" Jacob uttered the word so emphatically that it rang through the
house.

"Ah, well!" said the old man, lifting his eyes, and speaking in the air,
"all the harm may be mended yet. B