In the night, when the house was still, a gray-haired man, in night clothes and carrying a lighted lamp, softly stole into John's room. John lay with his face upturned, his eyes closed, and his lips parted in a sleeping smile. The father stood over him a moment, bent down and touched his lips to his son's brow. "He is a good boy yet," he said to himself, and softly stole away. Anne was singing, as she went about her work, when John awoke in the morning; and life was astir on every hand. The pigs were squealing in their sty; the calves were bawling in their pens; ducks were squawking in their pond; chickens were cackling in the barn yard, and the sun was shining everywhere. John dressed himself and descended the narrow stairway, with tousled head and open shirt front. The mother was milking the cows, James was in the field, and the father was in the barn. Anne was preparing breakfast. "Now, I may see you in the sunlight, sister," said John, as he sauntered into the old-fashioned kitchen, and stood before her, with folded arms, and half yawning yet from sleep, as she was spreading the cloth upon the table. "I didn't know I had such a dear little sister," he said, as he put his arm about her and kissed her on the lips. "You are such a fine brother, John, that I am almost in love with you," she returned, as she lovingly left an imprint of a kiss on his cheek; then leaving him to pursue her work. "Whose love would I want more than yours, Anne?" he asked, in his laughing manner. "Oh, I don't know, John; maybe you have a girl better than me to love you," she replied. "I shall never place any one above my dear little sister," he said thoughtfully; "but--for no one can be your equal--except--one." "Is it one of those, John, whom I am going after this morning?" asked Anne, rattling the skillet on the stove. "One of those whom brother James and I met on the road a short time ago?" "One of those, Anne--the rich man's only child--but I am too poor for her," he answered, regretfully. "Is she as good as you, brother--and me?" asked Anne, distributing the plates around the table. She was innocent yet of the ways of the world; but was feeling the first calling of young maidenhood. "She is very good, Anne; very good; but no better than you," he returned, with the same uncertain cloud of perplexity that overcast him so often before, still pervading him like a wave of blinding light that comes to obscure the vision, at times, by reason of its intensity of purpose. "She is very fine looking, John--both of them, John. Which one is it you mean?" "The smaller of the two." "Oh, the one with the bluest eyes, who took fright at us and ran." "That is just like Edith, to run." "I know I could love her, John." "You are anticipating, sister." "Why, who couldn't love you, John?" asked Anne, looking up at him, with some doubts as to what he meant. "That is a sister's opinion, child," said John.