The coming of the baby had its effect on Clinton; but not in the way Norine hoped for. He was very proud of both the baby and her, and very fond of both; but latterly he talked a great deal about money. The little capital he had had on his arrival at Bright Farm had remained untouched. But now he said that there was a necessity for increasing it. Norine laughed when he spoke of making provision for the child. “He will have the farm,” she said; “and we will be able to give him a good education. What more will he need?” “My love,” said Clinton, “you do not expect to keep the child cooped up on this little farm all his life?” “Why not?” inquired Norine, raising her eyebrows. “I have been here all my life, and have been very happy.” “Ah! you are a woman,” said Clinton, with something very like a sneer. “Girls naturally prefer to stay at home; but he is a boy, and you will find him different. He will want to get out into the world, and be something. All boys do,” he added inconsequentially. “Jim has been here all his life, and I am sure he would not care to change.” “Jim is the best fellow in the world,” replied Clinton, “but I do not expect my child will be like him; besides, we will have to respect the child’s inclinations when they become formed. You would not care to keep him on this little farm if he should prove talented?” Norine could not answer this. She had no doubt whatever of the child’s talent. “What will you do?” she asked meekly. “I think I will go to Altoona,” said Clinton, “and see if I can not get into something there.” “I am sure, dear,” said Norine, raising her wet eyes from the child to his father, “that little Clinton would rather stay on the farm all his life than to be the means of separating you and me.” “Why, who thought of separating?” cried Clinton impatiently. “I shall not be gone longer than a week at a time; and if I am successful, it will not take long to make as much money as we shall need. It is like a woman,” he added in an injured tone. “You would risk your child’s future rather than make a little sacrifice for him now.” “Very well, dear,” said Norine, drying her eyes. “Do as you think best, and I will try and not be selfish.” “Now that is my own dear little wife again,” said Clinton, kissing her gayly. “Remember, dear, how proud you will be to have your son, perhaps, famous.” Norine said nothing, but she smiled at him through her tears, and assisted in his preparations for departure as cheerfully as possible. After he had really gone, she locked herself into her own room with the baby, and wept the first bitter tears of her life. So the summer passed away, and autumn came with its beautiful changes, and they all prospered, and little Clinton grew daily in strength and beauty. His father came home at irregular intervals; sometimes only coming to stay over Sunday, sometimes staying contentedly at the farm for over a week at a time.