has died out of his eyes. They look softer, and yet
less languid, than I have ever seen them before; and there is subdued
appeal and entreaty in his lowered voice. At the present moment, I
distinctly dislike him. I think him altogether trying and odious, and I
should be glad--yes, _glad_, if Vick were to bite a piece out of his
leg; but, at the same time, I cannot deny that I have seldom seen any
thing comelier than the young man who now stands before me, with the
green woodland lights flickering about the close-shorn beauty of his
face--he is well aware that his are not features that need _planting
out_--while a lively emotion quickens all his lazy being.

"We are _not_ old friends! Let me pass!"

"_New_ friends, then--_friends_, at all events!" coming a step nearer,
and speaking without a trace of sneer, sloth, or languor.

"Not friends at all! Let me pass!"

"Not until you tell me my offense--not until you own that we are
friends!" (in a tone of quick excitement, and almost of authority, that,
in him, is new to me).

"Then we shall stay here all night!" reply I, with a fine obstinacy,
plumping down, as I speak, on the wayside grass, among the St.
John's-worts, and the red arum-berries. In a moment he has stepped
aside, and is holding the stout purple bramble-stem out of my way.

"Pass, then!" he says, in a tone of impatience, frowning a little; "as
you have said it, of course you will stick to it--right or wrong--or you
would not be a woman; but, whether you confess it or not, we _are_
friends!"

"We are NOT!" cry I, resolute to have the last word, as I spring up and
fly past him, with more speed than dignity, lest he should change his
mind, and again detain me.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The swallows are gone: the summer is done: it is October. The year knows
that I am in a hurry, and is hasting with its shortened days--each
day marked by the loss of something fair--toward the glad
Christmas-time--Christmas that will bring me back my Roger--that will
set him again at the foot of his table--that will give me again the
sound of his foot on the stairs, the smile in his fond gray eyes. So I
thought yesterday, and to-day I have heard from him; heard that though
he is greatly loath to tell me so, yet he cannot be back by Christmas;
that I must hear the joy-bells ring, and see the merry Christmas cheer
_alone_. It is true that he earnestly and insistantly begs of me to
gather all my people, father, mother, boys, g