"And better be a wise man than either one or the other. That would be about the right thing to end off with, wouldn't it?" said Jabez, looking up with a smile. "But about Nepos--I've tackled him; and I find him pretty tough. As for Euclid--I've walked through the first four books without a hitch. I've had considerable satisfaction out of him. Give me any proposition you like--well, some time, as we've got almost home. And I've never asked you a word about what _you_ have been doing. I have thought about you often enough." "That may wait too; I haven't done very much." "But if Miss Eunice keep so pretty well, you're going back again, aren't you?" Fidelia turned on him a startled look. She had been at ease of late with regard to her sister, partly because she had been much occupied, and partly because of the cheerful tone of her sister's letters. Jabez's words were spoken just as they had reached the top of the hill, where, on her last return home, she had caught sight of Dr Everett; and a sudden pang of the fear that had seized her then came back upon her now. She forgot to answer the lad's question, and took little heed of all that he was saying as they went down the hill. But when they turned the little curve which the road made round a projecting rock, and came in sight of the house, her heart leaped up with a sense of relief, and a rush of happy tears came to her eyes. For at the gate, serene and smiling, stood Eunice, waiting. The light which fell on the expressive face came trembling through the boughs of the elm which waved and murmured above. But Fidelia only saw the face. Afterwards it all came back to her--the vine and the pale blossoms that lingered, and the flickering shadows never to be forgotten; but it was her sister's face that she saw first. She might have been more beautiful in her youth which was past, but now she was more than beautiful. The "afterwards" had come--of the chastening, "not joyous, but grievous," which she had endured in her youth; and the "peaceable fruits" of the promise were appearing. Very fragile she looked, but cheerful and bright. "To think that I ever should have been afraid for my Eunice!" said Fidelia with a sob, before her foot touched the ground. "Well, dear, safe home!" was her sister's gentle greeting. "Home at last!" Fidelia answered. Few words were spoken, either of welcome or rejoicing. Few were needed. It was not the way of either of them to say out easily all that was in her heart; and in a little they were sitting as quietly as they sat that last day, when Dr Everett brought Fidelia home. It was spring-time then; and now the summer was nearly over--the summer which had done something for Eunice, as her sister clearly saw, but which, even to herself, she could not name.