etter. The
downfall of his happiness had been swift and piteous. William Haydon
was a much larger and rosier man than his father had ever been; the
old man looked shrunken as they crossed the field together. They had
prolonged their talk about letting the great south field lie fallow,
and about some new Hereford cattle that the young farmer had just
bought, until nothing more was left to say on either side. Then there
came a long pause, when each waited for the other to speak. William
grew impatient at last.

"Have you got any notion what it's best to do, sir?" he began boldly;
then, finding that his father did not answer, he turned to look at
him, and found that the drawn face was set in silent despair.

"I've always been forehanded; I never was caught so unprepared
before," he faltered. "'T has been my way, as you know, to think out
things beforehand, but it come to the very last before I could give it
up 'bout your mother's gettin' better; an' when I did give up, 't
wa'n't so I could think o' anything. An' here's your aunts got their
families dependin' on 'em, and wantin' to git away soon as may be. I
don't know which way to look."

"Marilla and I should be thankful if you'd come and stop 'long of us
this winter"--the younger man began, eagerly.

"No, no!" said his father sternly. "I ain't goin' to live in the
chimbly-corner of another man's house. I ain't but a little past
sixty-seven. I've got to stand in my lot an' place. 'T wouldn't be
neither your house nor mine, William," he said, in a softer tone.
"You're a good son; your mother always said you was a good son."

Israel Haydon's voice broke, and William Haydon's eyes filled with
tears, and they plodded along together in the soft spring grass.

"I've gone over everything I wish I could forget--all the bothering
tricks I played her, 'way back when I was a boy," said the young man,
with great feeling. "I declare, I don't know what to do, I miss her
so."

"You was an only child," said the father solemnly; "we done the best
we could by ye. She often said you was a good son, and she wa'n't
surprised to see ye prosper. An' about Marilly, 'long at the first,
when you was courtin' her, 't was only that poor mother thought nobody
wa'n't quite good enough for her boy. She come to set everything by
Marilly."

The only dark chapter in the family history was referred to for the
last time, to be forgotten by father and son. The old people had,
after all, gloried in