ting furiously, and sometimes reading from a big solid
book--which he seemed so unwilling for us to see that he carried it home
with him every night.

I was greatly puzzled, but not more puzzled and disturbed than Anthy
was. To her simple, direct nature Nort's moods were inexplicable; and
after what had happened, his mysterious attitude toward her troubled and
hurt her deeply. Two or three times when we happened to be alone
together I felt certain that she was leading up to the subject, and,
finally, one evening when I had gone out with the old Captain to supper,
and Anthy and I were walking afterward in the little garden behind the
house, it came to the surface. There was an old garden seat at the end
of the path, with clambering rose vines, now in full leaf, but not in
blossom, upon it. It was a charming spot, with an ancient apple tree not
far away, and all around it a garden of old-fashioned flowers. We sat
down on the seat.

"David," she said, evidently with some effort, "I'm puzzled about Norton
Carr. What has come over him? He's so different."

"I'm puzzled, too," I said, "but probably not so much as you are. I
think I know the real cause of the trouble."

Anthy looked around at me, but I did not turn my head. The evening
shadows were falling. I felt again that I was in the presence of high
events.

"He seems so preoccupied," she continued finally.

"Yes, I've wondered what book it is he is reading so industriously."

"Oh, I saw that," she said.

"What was it?" I asked eagerly.

"Nicolay and Hay's 'Life of Abraham Lincoln.'"

It struck me all in a heap, and I laughed aloud--and yet I heard of
Nort's reading not without a thrill.

"What _is_ the matter?" asked Anthy. "What does it all mean?"

I had very much the feeling at that moment that I had when I took
Anthy's letters from my desk to show to Nort, as though I was about to
share a great and precious treasure with Anthy.

So I told her, very quietly, about Nort's visit to me and some of the
things he said. She sat very still, her hands lying in her lap, her eyes
on some shadowy spot far across the garden. I paused, wondering how much
I dared tell.

"I don't know, Anthy, that I was doing right," I said, "but I wanted him
to know something of you as you really are. So I told him about your
letters to Lincoln, and showed him one of them."

She flushed deeply.

"You _couldn't_, David!"

"Yes, I did--and that may explain why he's reading the li