hed they would mind their own business.

"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?" he
asked.

"Oh no," replied Miriam, without looking at him.

He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no
anchor of righteousness that held him.

"Because," he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle--and goes to
work--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods."

"No, I shan't bother," said Miriam. And she meant it.

It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.

"How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, you shouldn't
have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul?"

"Oh, no!" he laughed.

But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam
pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go.

"You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously.

"Yes," he replied. "I said I'd be early." He was very awkward.

"But this IS early," said Mrs. Leivers.

Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated,
expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his
bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss.

"Well--good-night, all!" he faltered.

She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past
the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a
way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain.

She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed
through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and
a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random.
He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck.

Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to
read and be busy.

At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family
so much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth to
him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would
have been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he
loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots
tramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden
on; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was
so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of
romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the
gardens and the buildings