The years that had done much for Ruth had been equally kind to Nat, in giving him a generous growth for the figure leaning in the doorway seemed full of the vigor of wholesome country life. But the head that crowned it was such as one seldom sees on a farmer's shoulders; for the brown locks, gathered back into a ribbon, after the fashion of the time, showed a forehead of harmonious outline, overarching eyes full of the pathos and the passion that betray the presence of that gift which is divine when young. The mouth was sensitive as any woman's, and the lips were often folded close, as if pride controlled the varying emotions that swayed a nature ardent and aspiring as a flame of fire. Few could read the language of this face, yet many felt the beauty that it owed to a finer source than any grace of shape or color, and wondered where the subtle secret lay. "Ruth, may I tell you something?" "Of course you may. Only don't upset the salt-box or sit down upon the churn." Nat did neither, but still leaned in the doorway and still watched the trim figure before him, as if it was very pleasant to his eyes; while Ruth, after a brief glance over her shoulder, a nod and a smile, spatted away as busily as ever. "You know I was one-and-twenty yesterday?" "I'm not like to forget it, after sewing my eyes out to work a smart waistcoat as a keepsake." "Nor I; for there's not such another in the town, and every rosebud is as perfect as if just pulled from our bush yonder. See, I've put it on as knights put on their armor when they went to fight for fortune and their ladies' love." As he spoke, Nat smilingly thrust his hands into the pockets of a long-flapped garment, which was a master-piece of the needlework in vogue a century ago. Ruth glanced up at him with eyes full of hearty admiration for the waistcoat and its wearer. But something in those last words of his filled her with a trouble both sweet and bitter, as she asked anxiously,-- "Are you going away, Nat?" "For a week only. Uncle has been very kind, and given me a chance to prove which road it's best for me to take, since the time has come when I must choose. I ride to Boston this afternoon, Ruth, carrying my poems with me, that I may submit them to the criticism of certain learned gentlemen, who can tell me if I deceive myself or not. I have agreed to abide by their decision, and if it is in my favor--as God grant it be--Uncle leaves me free to live the life I love, among my books and all that makes this world glorious. Think, Ruth,--a poet in good truth, to sing when I will, and delve no more! Will you be pleased and proud if I come back and tell you this?" "Indeed, I will, if it makes you happy. And yet"--She paused there, looking wistfully into his face, now all aglow with the hope and faith that are so blissful and so brief.