Never were there such puzzling days as those which followed. To all outward appearance the life in the office of the _Star_ had been restored to its former humdrum. The incident of Nort's disappearance was as if it had not happened. The business of printing a country newspaper proceeded with the utmost decorum. And yet there was a difference--a difference in Nort. He was in a mood unlike anything we had seen before. He was much less boyish, more dignified, dignified at times to the point of being almost amusing. Once or twice he thoughtlessly broke out with some remark that suggested his old enthusiasm--but caught himself instantly. Also, he had very little to say to Anthy, did not once offer to walk home with her, and seemed to be most friendly of all with the old Captain. Also, I found that he was often in the office at night, sometimes writing furiously, and sometimes reading from a big solid book--which he seemed so unwilling for us to see that he carried it home with him every night. I was greatly puzzled, but not more puzzled and disturbed than Anthy was. To her simple, direct nature Nort's moods were inexplicable; and after what had happened, his mysterious attitude toward her troubled and hurt her deeply. Two or three times when we happened to be alone together I felt certain that she was leading up to the subject, and, finally, one evening when I had gone out with the old Captain to supper, and Anthy and I were walking afterward in the little garden behind the house, it came to the surface. There was an old garden seat at the end of the path, with clambering rose vines, now in full leaf, but not in blossom, upon it. It was a charming spot, with an ancient apple tree not far away, and all around it a garden of old-fashioned flowers. We sat down on the seat. "David," she said, evidently with some effort, "I'm puzzled about Norton Carr. What has come over him? He's so different." "I'm puzzled, too," I said, "but probably not so much as you are. I think I know the real cause of the trouble." Anthy looked around at me, but I did not turn my head. The evening shadows were falling. I felt again that I was in the presence of high events. "He seems so preoccupied," she continued finally. "Yes, I've wondered what book it is he is reading so industriously." "Oh, I saw that," she said. "What was it?" I asked eagerly. "Nicolay and Hay's 'Life of Abraham Lincoln.'" It struck me all in a heap, and I laughed aloud--and yet I heard of Nort's reading not without a thrill. "What _is_ the matter?" asked Anthy. "What does it all mean?" I had very much the feeling at that moment that I had when I took Anthy's letters from my desk to show to Nort, as though I was about to share a great and precious treasure with Anthy.