and all this had to be done with the utmost economy possible. It was an enormous task, which pleased Roger greatly; and while he was working at it, he had no time to spare, even for Michael. When he had come to Bradstane, there had been a question about where he was to live. This was settled by Dr. Rowntree, who said— ‘Come to the barrack, and put up with Michael and me.’ Roger hesitated a little at first, but there was no mistaking the sincerity of the doctor’s wish, and the young man was very willing to be persuaded; for, to tell the truth, there was no one in the world in whose proximity he loved so well to be as in that of Michael Langstroth. He therefore soon allowed his scruples to be overcome, and so was formed this odd triangular household of bachelors, old and young, and hard work was the order of the day. While Roger was full of business, and seeming to grow heartier and stronger the more he had to do, Michael, he noticed, when he had time to notice him, was a good deal quieter and staider than he once had been; not with the dulness of discontent, it would seem, nor of depression, but, so far as Roger could make out, just with the quietness which comes to nearly all men, as life lays gradually increasing burdens upon them. Roger sometimes wondered if his long engagement pressed upon Michael, but at the sound of Magdalen’s name there always crossed his face that expression which, the first time Roger had seen it, had wrung his heart, because it had told him that a spell stronger than friendship had taken possession of Michael’s being. They did not talk about such things, or ‘confide’ in each other—such is not the way of men’s friendships, nor, perhaps, of any deep friendships; and then, Michael, with his outwardly urbane and gracious manner, was deeply reserved on personal matters; and Roger, for all his rough exterior, and oftentimes untutored tongue, had what is called, and very generally miscalled, ‘the tact of a woman,’ in regard to such topics. But Michael had on one or two occasions, when something had stirred him more than usual, let fall a few words as to his own inner experiences, which Roger had treasured up, and rightly so, as evidences of more than brotherly regard, and of an entire confidence in him on Michael’s part. Speaking one day about an illness of old Miss Strangforth, which had been serious, and in which both he and Dr. Rowntree had been attending her, there was a shade on Michael’s brow, and a worried, worn look on his face. ‘Is Miss Strangforth likely to die, Michael?’ asked Roger, roused to a sudden interest in the matter. ‘Oh no! At least, I most sincerely trust not. No; we will pull her through this time.’ ‘Miss Wynter is helping to nurse her, of course?’ ‘Yes, of course—like an angel.’ ‘I should be afraid it was rather close work for her.’