e it more worth the mare's labor
to eat it. Good-night all; good night."

Peter grumbled something beneath his breath and shambled out.

"God bless him!" said Greta presently; and Paul, without lifting his
eyes from the fire, said quietly:

"'Christe's lore, and His apostles twelve
He taught; but first he followed it himselve.'"

Then there was silence in the little vicarage. Paul sat without
animation until Greta set herself to bewitch him out of his moodiness.
Her bright eyes, dancing in the rosy fire-light that flickered in the
room; her high spirits bubbling over with delicious teasing and joyous
sprightliness; her tenderness, her rippling laughter, her wit, her
badinage--all were brought to the defeat and banishment of Paul's
heaviness of soul. It was to no purpose. The gloom of the grave face
would not be conquered. Paul smiled slightly into the gleaming eyes, and
laughed faintly at the pouting lips, and stroked tenderly the soft hair
that was glorified into gold in the glint of the fire-light; but the old
sad look came back once and again.

Greta gave it up at last. She rose from the hassock at his feet.

"Sweetheart," she said, "I will go to bed. You are not well to-night, or
you are angry, or out of humor."

She waited a moment, but he did not speak. Then she made a feeble feint
of leaving the room.

At last Paul said:

"Greta, I have something to say."

She was back at her hassock in an instant. The laughter had gone from
her eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness.

"You are unhappy. You have been unhappy a long, long time, and have
never told me the cause. Tell me now."

The heavy face relaxed.

"What ever put that in your head, little one?" he asked, in a playful
tone, patting the golden hair.

"Tell me now," she said more eagerly. "Think of me as a woman fit to
share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and
never to be burdened with a man's sterner cares. If I am not fit to
know your troubles, I am not fit to be your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it
is that has taken the sunshine out of your life."

"The sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman--here
it is," said Paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the
glistening hair.

The girl's lucent eyes fell.

"You are playing with me," she said gravely; "you are always playing
with me. Am I so much a child? Are you angry with me?"

"Angry with you, little one? Hardly that, I think," said Paul