The oxen were taking one of their rests, in the latter part of
the day, and Winthrop was sitting on the beam of his plough,
when for the first time Rufus came and joined him. He sat
down in silence and without so much as looking at his brother;
and both in that warm and weary day sat a little while quietly
looking over the water; or perhaps at the little point of
rest, the little brown spot among the trees on the promontory,
where home and mother and little baby sister, and the end of
the day, and the heart's life, had their sole abiding-place. A
poor little shrine, to hold so much!

Winthrop's eyes were there, his brother's were on the
distance. When did such two ever sit together on the beam of
one plough, before or since! Perhaps the eldest might have
seen nineteen summers, but his face had nothing of the boy,
beyond the fresh colour and fine hue of youth. The features
were exceedingly noble, and even classically defined; the eye
as beautiful now in its grave thoughtfulness as it had been a
few hours before in its fire. The mouth was never at rest; it
was twitching or curving at the corners now with the working
of some hidden cogitations. The frame of the younger brother
was less developed; it promised to be more athletic than that
of the elder, with perhaps somewhat less grace of outline; and
the face was not so regularly handsome. A very cool and clear
grey eye aided the impression of strength; and the mouth, less
beautifully moulded than that of Rufus, was also infinitely
less demonstrative. Rufus's mouth, in silence, was for ever
saying something. Winthrop's for the most part kept its fine
outlines unbroken, though when they did give way it was to
singular effect. The contrast between the faces was striking,