And again there was a little silence. And the eyes of both were fixed on the river and the opposite hills, while they saw only that distant world and the vague barrier between. "But I intend to go, Winthrop," said his brother, looking at him, with fire enough in his face to _burn up_ obstacles. "Yes, you will go," the younger said calmly. The cool grey eye did not speak the internal "So will I!" -- which stamped itself upon his heart. They got up from the plough beam. "I'll try for't," was Rufus's conclusion, as he shook himself. "_You'll get it_," said Winthrop. There was much love as well as ambition in the delighted look with which his brother rewarded him. They parted to their work. They ploughed the rest of their field: -- what did they turn over besides the soil? They wended their slow way back with the oxen when the evening fell; but the yoke was off their own necks. The lingering western light coloured another world than the morning had shined upon. No longer bondsmen of the soil, they trode it like masters. They untackled their oxen and let them out, with the spirit of men whose future work was to be in a larger field. Only Hope's little hand had lifted the weight from their heads. And Hope's only resting point was determination. CHAPTER II. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, "ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, As ever weathered a wintry sea!" LONGFELLOW. "The ploughing's all done; thank fortune!" exclaimed Rufus as he came into the kitchen. "Well, don't leave your hat there in the middle of the floor," said his mother. "Yes, it just missed knocking the tea-cups and saucers off the table," said little Asahel. "It hasn't missed knocking you off your balance," said his brother tartly. "Do you know where your own hat is?" "It hain't knocked me off anything!" said Asahel. "It didn't touch me!" "Do you know where your own hat is?" "No." "What does it matter, Will?" said his mother. "It's hanging out of doors, on the handle of the grindstone." "It ain't!" "Yes it is; -- on the grindstone." "No it isn't," said Winthrop coming in, "for I've got it here. There -- see to it, Asahel. Mamma, papa's come. We've done ploughing." And down went his hat, but not on the floor. "Look at Winifred, Governor -- she has been calling for you all day." The boy turned to a flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked, little toddling thing of three or four years old, at his feet, and took her up, to the perfect satisfaction of both parties. Her head nestled in his neck and her little hand patted his cheek with great approval and contentment. "Mamma," said Asahel, "what makes you call Winthrop Governor? -- he isn't a governor." "Ask your father. And run and tell him tea's just ready."