"Of course I can, you dear old Dad," I cried; and horribly guilty I felt as I looked at the kindly, weather-beaten face. "I shall do just whatever you say. But oh, I wish I _could go to the city_! Don't you suppose I could?" "Chicago, mebbe?" "I had thought of a post-graduate course in Barnard College--that's in New York, you know." Father knew John's plans. I blushed hotly. In the pause that followed I knew that he was thinking of a well-thumbed map in my old school geography; of the long, long journey to Chicago, and the thousand weary miles that stretched beyond. Hastily I went on:-- "But I know how you have saved for me and worked for me and pinched; and I'd be ashamed to be a burden upon you any longer; I can teach to get money to go on with." "No;" said Pa, sitting up straight and striking the arm of the chair with his clenched fist a blow that gave some hint of the excitement that moved him. "Guess a child o' mine don't need to teach an' get all dragged out, alon' of a passel o' wild children! No, no, Helen 'Lizy;" he added more softly, sinking back into the old attitude and once more closing his eyes; "if the's so much more to learn, an' you want to go ahead an' learn it, just you go an' get it done with. I'm right sorry to have ye go so fur away; I did think--but it's nat'ral, child; it's nat'ral. I s'pose John Burke's goin' to the city, too, and you kinder--I s'pose young folks likes to be together." "I--I--we have talked of it." Talked about it! John and I had talked of nothing else for a week. I sat very still, my eyes on the carpet. "Guess John Burke'll have all he cares to do for one while, gittin' started in the law office, 'thout runnin' round with Nelly," said Ma. "Ye seem bent on spoilin' the child, Ezry. Al'ays the same way, ever sin' she's a little girl." Her lips were compressed, the outward symbol of a life of silent hours and self restraint. "There, there, Ma," said Father, jogging his chair again. "Don't ye worry no more 'bout that. What's ourn is hern in the long run, an' she may as well have some of it now when she wants it, an' it'll do her some good. I s'pose Frank Baker--she that's your mother's cousin an' married Tim'thy Baker an's gone to New York to live--I s'pose she might look after you; but it's a long way off, New York--seems like a dretful long way off. What ye goin' to learn, Sis, if ye should go t' the city?" "Well, I was good in chemistry; Prof. Meade advised me--I might study medicine; I don't know. And I want to know more about books and pictures and the things that people talk about, out in the world, though I can hardly call that a study, I suppose." The words somehow disappointed me when uttered. They didn't sound convincing. Such pursuits seemed less serious, there in the old farm-house that spoke of so much painful toil, than when John and I had discussed them on the sunny campus.