face away. She was as tall as Barnabas, and as handsome.

"Yes, I should," persisted Barnabas, all radiant, and his face
pursued hers around her shoulder.

"It's pretty cold out, ain't it?" said Charlotte, in a chiding voice
which she could scarcely control.

"I've been in to see our house. Give me one more kiss. Oh,
Charlotte!"

"Charlotte!" cried a deep voice, and the lovers started apart.

"I'm coming, father," Charlotte cried out. She opened the door and
went soberly into the kitchen, with Barnabas at her heels. Her
father, mother, and Aunt Sylvia Crane sat there in the red gleam of
the firelight and gathering twilight. Sylvia sat a little behind the
others, and her face in her white cap had the shadowy delicacy of one
of the flowering apple sprays outside.

"How d'ye do?" said Barnabas in a brave tone which was slightly
aggressive. Charlotte's mother and aunt responded rather nervously.

"How's your mother, Barnabas?" inquired Mrs. Barnard.

"She's pretty well, thank you."

Charlotte pulled forward a chair for her lover; he had just seated
himself, when Cephas Barnard spoke in a voice as sudden and gruff as
a dog's bark. Barnabas started, and his chair grated on the sanded