They were still at Bright Farm, though the summer was passing away. But there was so much to be done before they could enter into their new sphere that the summer had nearly gone before they were ready to move. Jim had been to New York several times in order to familiarize himself with his new property and duties, but Norine had remained contentedly at the little cottage, being somewhat loath, in fact, to leave it. There were so many pleasant faces about the old homestead, and her past life had been so completely wrapped up in her immediate surroundings, that it was like being born anew to leave it. So she spent the greater part of this summer in idling listlessly about the place, going many times to the little hut--now very much dismantled--where she had first met her husband, and visiting in turn every place made sacred to her by her memory of him. But the time had come at last when they were to move. The Higginses had already taken possession of the cottage and farm as tenants and agents, and there was nothing left to do but say good-by to all things, animate and inanimate, about the place. Norine made one last pilgrimage to the little shanty in the woods, while Jim drove into town for a last consultation with Doctor Conway. “Well, Jim,” cried the doctor cheerily, “is everything arranged to your satisfaction?” “Yes,” replied Jim, heaving a great sigh of relief, “everything is settled at last; that is,” he added, “everything but one.” “What is that?” “Why, it is your matter. I don’t see why you won’t let me help you, now I have a chance. God knows,” he added earnestly, “you have helped me often enough.” “If I have, I have been amply repaid for it,” said Conway. “And really, Jim, if there was anything you could do for me, I would not hesitate a moment to accept your kind offer. But, you see, there is really nothing I want.” “Oh, nonsense!” retorted Jim ungraciously. “I have heard you say a thousand times that you hoped to move into a large city some day, where you would have a chance to build yourself up.” “That was when I was young and ambitious. I have outgrown all that now,” said Conway. He spoke very pleasantly, for Jim was his one particular friend; but there was a tired, worn look on his face, when it was in repose, and a tinge of indifference in all he said. “Then you do not care to improve?” inquired Jim. “Improve? Certainly. I study every day with that end in view. The physician who does not care to improve himself and increase his knowledge can have no affinity for his chosen profession. I hope to improve greatly; but that does not necessitate a desire to change.” “But you would have greater advantages in the city,” persisted Jim. “Your field of labor would become more extended, and your opportunities for doing good be so much greater.”