The next morning Bart was not up as usual, and George rushed into the low-ceiled room, under the roof.

“Bart! breakfast is ready! Ma thinks it strange you ain’t up. That was a splendid big bass. Where did you take him? Are you sick?” as he came in.

“No, Georgie; I am only languid and dull. I must have been wofully tired.”

“I should think you would be, running all day and up all night. I should think you’d be hungry, too, by this time.”

“Georgie, how handsome you look this morning! What a splendid young man you will be, and so bright, and joyous, and good! Everybody will love you; no woman will scorn you. There, tell mother not to wait! I will get up soon.”

Some time after, the light, quick step of his mother was heard approaching his door, where she paused as if to listen.

“I am up, mother,” called out Bart; and she found him partly dressed, and sitting listlessly on his bed, pale and dejected.

“It is nothing, mother; I’m only a little depressed and dull. I’ll be all right in an hour. I ran in the woods a good deal, took cold, and am tired.”

She looked steadily and wistfully at him. The great change in his face could not escape her. Weary he looked, and worn, as from a heart-ill.

“What has happened, Barton? Did you go to anybody’s house? Whom did you see?”

“No; I went to the pond, and met the Doctor and Uncle Jonah, and Theodore came home with me.”

“Did you meet Julia Markham anywhere?”

“I did; she was going home from Coe’s by the old road, and I went out of the woods with her.”

A long, hard-drawn breath from his mother, who saw that he took her question like a stab.

“It is no matter, mother. It had to be over some time.”

“Barton! you don’t mean, Barton

“I do, just that, mother,” steadily. “She was kinder in her scorn than she meant. It was what I needed.”

“Her scorn! her scorn, Barton!”

“Yes, her scorn, mother,” decidedly and firmly.

“You must have talked and acted foolishly, Barton.”

“I did talk and act foolishly, and I take the consequences.”

“You are both young, Barton, and you have all the world in which to overcome your faults and repair your mistakes, and Julia

“Not another word of her, mother dear! She has gone more utterly out of my life than as if she were buried. Then I might think of her; now I will not,” firmly.

“Oh, that this should come to you now, my poor, poor boy!”

“Don’t pity me, mother! I am soft enough now, and don’t you for a moment think that I have nothing else to do in this world but to be killed out of it by the scorn of a girl. Let us not think of these Markhams. The Judge is ambitious, and proud of his wealth and self, and his daughter is ambitious too. The world wants me; it has work for me. I can hear its voices calling me now, and I am not ready. Don’t think I am to sit and languish and pine for any girl;” and his mouth was firm with will and purpose, and a great swell of pride and pain agitated the bosom of his mother, who recognized the high elements of a nature drawn from her own.

“You know, mother,” he continued, thoughtfully, “that I am not one to be loved. I am not handsome and popular, like Morris, whom all men like and many women love; nor thoughtful and accomplished and considerate, like Henry, whom everybody esteems and respects, and of whom so much is expected.”

“Do you envy them, Barton?”

“Envy them, mother? Don’t I love the world for loving Morris? Don’t I follow him about to feel the gladness that he brings? Don’t I live on the praises of Henry? and don’t I tear every man that utters a doubt of his infallibility? Poor old Dominie Young! I was savage on him last night, for an unnecessary remark about Henry; and I’ll go and hear him preach, to show my contrition; and penitence can’t go further. Now, mother dear, I probably wanted this, and I am now down on the flat, hard foundation of things. Don’t blame this Julia, and don’t think of her in connection with me. No girl will ever scorn one of your boys but once.”

She lingered, and would have said more; but he put her away with affected gayety, and said he was coming down immediately, and he did. But the melancholy chords vibrated long.

There was another overhauling of the little desk, and innumerable sketches of various excellence, having a family resemblance, with faults in common, were sent to join the departed verses.

That night, in a letter to Henry, he said: “I’ve burned the last of my ships, not saving even a small boat.”

Mrs. Ridgeley pondered over the revelation which her woman’s intuitions had drawn from Barton. No woman can understand why a son of hers should fail with any natural-born daughter of woman, and she suspected that poor Bart had, with his usual impetuosity, managed the affair badly. No matter if he had; she felt that he was not an object of any woman’s scorn; and this particular Julia, she had every reason to know, would live to correct her impressions and mourn her folly. She, however, was incapable of injustice to even her own sex; and if Julia did not fancy Barton, she was not to blame, however faulty her taste. She remembered with satisfaction that she and hers were under no obligations to the Markhams, and she only hoped that her son would be equal to adhering to his purpose. She had little fear of this, although she knew nothing of the offensive manner of his rejection, and had no intimation of what followed it. To her, Julia was to be less than the average girl of her acquaintance.

In the afternoon the two mothers met by accident, at the store, whither Mrs. Ridgeley had gone to make a few small purchases, and Mrs. Markham to examine the newly-arrived goods. Mrs. Ridgeley had no special inducement to waste herself on Mrs. Markham, and none to exhibit any sensibility at the treatment of Barton; her manner was an admirable specimen of the cool, neighborly, indifferently polite. She was by nature a thorough-bred and high-spirited woman; and had Julia openly murdered poor Bart, the manner of his mother would not have betrayed her knowledge of the fact to Mrs. Markham. That lady busied herself with some goods until Mrs. Ridgeley had completed her purchases, when she approached her with her natural graciousness, which was so spontaneous that it was hardly a virtue, and was met with much of her own frank suavity. These ladies never discussed the weather, or their neighbors, or hired girls, which latter one of them did not have; and with a moment’s inquiry after each other’s welfare, in which each omitted the family of the other, Mrs. Markham asked Mrs. Ridgeley’s judgment as to the relative qualities of two or three pieces of ladies’ fabrics, carelessly saying that she was choosing for Julia, who was quite undecided. Mrs. Ridgeley thought Miss Markham was quite right to defer the matter to her mother’s judgment, and feared that her own ignorance of goods of that quality would not enable her to aid Mrs. Markham. Mrs. Markham casually remarked that there was much demand for the goods, and that Julia had had a long walk around to the Coes the day before, and home through the woods, and was a little wearied to-day, and had referred the matter to her. Mrs. Ridgeley understood that Miss Markham was accustomed to healthy out-door exercise, and yet young girls were sometimes, she presumed, nearly as imprudent as boys, etc.; she trusted Miss Markham would soon be restored.

If either of the ladies looked the other in the face while speaking and spoken to, as is allowable, neither discovered anything by the scrutiny. Mrs. Markham thought Mrs. Ridgeley must suffer much on account of the rashness of so many spirited boys, though she believed that Mrs. Ridgeley was fortunate in the devotion of all her sons. Mrs. Ridgeley thanked her; as to her boys, she had become accustomed to their caring for themselves, and when they were out she seldom was anxious about them. Mrs. Markham thought that they must have some interesting adventures in their hunting excursions. Mrs. Ridgeley said that Morris always enjoyed telling of what he had done and met in the woods, while Barton never mentioned anything, unless he had found a rare flower, a splendid tree, or a striking view, or something of that sort.

The ladies gave each other much well-bred attention, and Mrs. Markham went on to remark that she had not seen Barton since his return, but that Julia had mentioned meeting him once or twice. Mrs. Ridgeley replied that soon after Barton came home, she remembered that he spoke of meeting Miss Markham at the store. The faces of the ladies told nothing to each other. Mrs. Markham gave an animated account of her call at the house being built by Major Ridgeley for Mr. Snow, in Auburn, and said that Mr. Snow was promising that Major Ridgeley might give a ball in it; and the Major undertook to have it ready about New Year’s, and that the ball would be very select, she understood; the house was to contain a very fine ball-room, etc.

Had Mrs. Ridgeley received a letter recently from Henry? She had. Would Barton probably go and study with his brother? She thought that would be pleasant for both. Mrs. Markham was very kind to inquire about the boys. Would Mrs. Ridgeley permit Mrs. Markham to send her home in her new buggy? It stood at the door. Mrs. Ridgeley thanked her; she was going up by Coe’s, and so out across the bit of woods, home. Did not Mrs. Ridgeley fear the animal that had been heard to scream in these woods? Mrs. Ridgeley did not in the least, and she doubted if there was one.

The ladies separated. Mrs. Markham decided that Barton had not told his mother of meeting Julia the day before, nor of their adventure afterwards, and she was relieved from the duty of explaining anything; and she thought well of the young man’s discretion, or pride.

Mrs. Ridgeley thought that Mrs. Markham was talking at her for a purpose, perhaps to find out what Barton told her; and it was some little satisfaction, perhaps, to know that Julia did not feel like being out, but then Julia was a noble girl, and would feel regret at inflicting pain. Poor Bart! Generous Mrs. Ridgeley! It also occurred to Mrs. Ridgeley that Mrs. Markham did not return to the subject of the goods, and she was really afraid that Julia might lose her dress.