It was a stormy November evening. Wind and rain whirled and drove among
the trees outside, but the sitting-room of the old farm-house was bright
and warm. David and Jonathan, at the table, with their arms over each
other's backs and their brown locks mixed together, read from the same
book: their father sat in the ancient rocking-chair before the fire,
with his feet upon a stool. The housekeeper and hired man had gone to
bed, and all was still in the house.

John waited until he heard the volume closed, and then spoke.

"Boys," he said, "let me have a bit of talk with you. I don't seem to
get over my ailments rightly,--never will, maybe. A man must think of
things while there's time, and say them when they HAVE to be said. I
don't know as there's any particular hurry in my case; only, we never
can tell, from one day to another. When I die, every thing will belong
to you two, share and share alike, either to buy another farm with the
money out, or divide this: I won't tie you up in any way. But two of you
will need two farms for two families; for you won't have to wait twelve
years, like your mother and me."

"We don't want another farm, father!" said David and Jonathan together.

"I know you don't think so, now. A wife seemed far enough off from me
when I was your age. You've always been satisfied to be with each other,
but that can't last. It was partly your mother's notion; I remember her
saying that our burden had passed into you. I never quite understood
what she meant, but I suppose it must rather be the opposite of what WE
had to bear."

The twins listened with breathless attention while their father,
suddenly stirred by the past, told them the story of his long betrothal.

"And now," he exclaimed, in conclusion, "it may be putting wild
ideas into your two heads, but I must say it! THAT was where I did
wrong--wrong to her and to me,--in waiting! I had no right to spoil the
best of our lives; I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her
father's house, taken her by the hand, and led her forth to be my wife.
Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman truly, and she to love you,
and there is no reason why God (I don't say man) should put you asunder,
do as I ought to have done, not as I did! And, maybe, this advice is the
best legacy I can leave you."

"But, father," said David, speaking for both, "we have never thought of
marrying."

"Likely enough," their father answered; "we hardly ever think of