lingering
delicacy of intonation.

David provided her with books, as he had promised himself. Sometimes he
brought them down to her, and they read together; sometimes he left them
with her and she read them by herself eagerly and happily; but so busy
was she that she found very little time to be with him. Not only did all
the work of the household fall on her, but the weaving, which her mother
had done heretofore, and the care of the animals, which had been done by
Frale.

The life she had hoped to lead and the good she had longed to do when
she left home for school, encouraged by the bishop and his wife, she now
resolutely put away from her, determined to lead in the best way the
life that she knew must henceforth be hers. She hoped at least she might
be able to bring the home place back to what it used to be in her
Grandfather Caswell's time, and to this end she labored patiently,
albeit sadly.

David was ever aware of a barrier past which he might never step, no
matter how merry or how intimate they might seem to be, and always about
her a silent air of waiting, which deterred him in his efforts to draw
her into more confidential relations. Yet as the days passed, he became
more interested in her, influenced by her nearness to him, and still
more by her remoteness.

Allured and baffled, often in the early morning or late evening he would
sit in the doorway of his cabin, or out on his rock with his flute, when
his thoughts were full of her. Simple, maidenly, and strong, his heart
yearned toward her, while instinctively she held herself aloof in quiet
dignity. Never had she presented herself at his door unless impelled by
necessity. Never had she sat with him in his cabin since that first time
when she came to him so heavy hearted for Frale.

Only when she knew him to be absent had she gone to his cabin and set
all its disorder to rights. Then he would return to find it swept and
cleaned, and sweet with wild flowers and pine greenery and vines, his
cooking utensils washed and scoured, the floor whitened with scrubbing,
in his larder newly baked corn-bread and white beaten biscuits, his
honey jar refilled and fresh butter pats in the spring. Sometimes a
brown, earthen jug of cool, refreshing buttermilk stood on his table,
but always his thanks would be swept aside with the words:--

"Mother sent me up to see could I do anything for you. You are always
that kind and we can't do much."

"And you never come up whe