windows in the shingle roof looked north and south. The room was large
and square, spare of furniture, lined with books. At a square table in
the centre sat Ephraim.

When Susannah entered a gust of wind came with her. The handkerchief
folded across her bosom was blown awry. Her sun-bonnet had slipped back
upon her neck; her ringlets were tossed.

"Cousin Ephraim, my aunt has gone; come out and play with me." Then she
added more disconsolately, "I am lonely; I want you to talk to me,
cousin."

The gust had lifted Ephraim's papers and shed them upon the floor. He
looked down at them without moving. Life in a world of thoughts in which
his fellows took no interest, had produced in him a singularly
undemonstrative manner.

Susannah's red lips were pouting. "Come, cousin, I am so tired of
myself."

But Ephraim had been privately accused of amative emotions. Offended
with his mother, mortified he knew not why, uncertain of his own
feeling, as scholars are apt to be, he had no wish then but to retire.

"I am too busy, Susianne."

"Then I will go alone; I will go for a long, long walk by myself." She
gave her foot a defiant stamp upon the floor.

He looked out of his windows north and south; safer district could not