But at the end of a week he returned, promptly on the minute. His moments of depression, however, seemed rather to increase than diminish, and, although carefully repressed, were visible to a pair of watchful eyes. Upon his face when in repose there had always been a melancholy look, which now seemed deepening as from an inward sorrow, too strong to conquer. This was betrayed occasionally by a careless speech, but to her questioning he always returned a cheerful answer. In spite of these heroic efforts to maintain a joyful front, Molly was not deceived, and it was evident, even to Mr. Cabot, that the young man was either ill in body or the victim of a mental disturbance that might be disastrous in its results. Of this he was destined to have a closer knowledge than his daughter. It came about one Sunday morning, when the two men had climbed a neighboring hill for a view which Mr. Cabot had postponed from week to week since early June. This was his last Sunday in Daleford and his final opportunity. The view was well worth the climb. The day itself, such a day as comes oftenest in September, when the clear air is tempered to the exact degree for human comfort by the rays of a summer sun, was one in which the most indifferent view could shine without an effort. Below them, at the foot of the hill, lay the village of Daleford with its single street. Except the white spires of the churches, little of it could be seen, however, beneath the four rows of overhanging elms. Off to their left, a mile or two away, the broad Connecticut, through its valley of elms, flowed serenely to the sea; and beyond, the changing hills took on every color from the deepest purple to a golden yellow. A green valley on their right wandered off among the woods and hills, and in it the stately avenue of maples they both knew so well. A silence so absolute and so far-reaching rested upon the scene that, after a word or two of praise, the two men, from a common impulse, remained without speaking. As thus they sat under the gentle influence of a spell which neither cared to break, the notes of an organ came floating upward from the trees below them, and mingled with the voices of a choir. Mr. Cabot’s thoughts turned at once to the friend at his side, whom he felt must experience a yet deeper impression from these familiar scenes of his childhood. Turning to express this thought, he was so struck by the look upon Amos’s face, an expression of such despairing melancholy, that he stopped in the middle of his sentence. While well aware that these tragic eyes were always most pathetic objects in repose, he had never seen upon a human face a clearer token of a hopeless grief. “What is it, my boy?” he asked, laying a hand upon the knee beside him. “Tell me. I may be able to help you.”