“Your late experience would answer that question,” replied Norine quietly. “A man is free to come and go. If he does not find friends at home, he can go out into the world and search for them, as you have done. But I will admit,” she continued, smiling archly, “that you sometimes get into trouble in the search.” “That does not matter if we only accomplish our ends.” “You can generally do that; at least, you can find friends if you wish to.” “As I have done?” Norine looked up quickly. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I think you have found friends here, but you will, no doubt, find better ones.” “No kinder ones, I am sure,” replied the sick man gratefully. “They are friends whom I shall never forget.” Norine made no reply, and shortly after left the room to find her favorite seat upon the doorstep, where she fell into a profound reverie. It became the custom for the brother and sister to join their guest in the evening. He could sit up in bed and play cribbage with Jim, while Norine, with her work or a book, would sit by the little table, coming over to the bedside occasionally when the game became more than usually interesting. It was a very happy time for all, although I have no doubt Clinton enjoyed it the most. He was something of a vagabond, and had seen a great many things that were new to these simple country people; and as he was clever and entertaining, his stories lost nothing in interest from his manner of relating them. On the other hand, he found in this brother and sister, neither of whom had ever been fifty miles away from their little farm, two remarkably intelligent and well-read people. It was astonishing, he thought, that, isolated as they were, they should acquire so many of the graces that usually can only be obtained by mingling in the society of cultured people. He hinted at this once to Jim; but as that gentleman considered it unnecessary to explain matters of family history to this stranger, he got very little satisfaction. “I read a great deal and think a little,” Jim had said shortly; and Clinton was too wise to push the matter further. True, he once tried to interrogate Mrs. Higgins delicately as to the history of his host, but he got even less satisfaction there. That good woman informed him that: “A fox onct was er peekin’ er round ther barn, expectin’ ter find er chicken; instead o’ which, a steel trap found him.” Having posted him on that bit of farmyard history, she snorted once or twice significantly, but said no more, and Clinton gave up all hopes of obtaining any information from her. Still, his curiosity did not detract any from the pleasure of their company, and so the pleasant evenings came and went until the bed was no longer necessary, and they gathered around the kitchen fireplace instead; but still they enjoyed themselves, and still Clinton continued to improve. He was nearly well now, but nothing had been said about him leaving Bright Farm.