The very frankness of her words and manner misled the boy. The curious suspicion that for a moment had beset him fled fast before his laughter. She went on reading--seemed to do so. But an image for which the writer of that book was not responsible stood, all the while, clear and immovable in her memory. Before her, in a rude shed, were a boy and a girl. The girl had a basket in her hand, filled with chips, which she had raked from the sawdust; the boy was offering her assistance; but he knew well enough there was no wood to be sawn or split. It was growing dark and cold within the house, and still more dismal without it. The hearts of these two are warmer than their hands. 'I've done it,' said the boy. 'I brought my books home last night, Josey, and I'm going to my uncle in the morning.' 'What did he say?' 'He wouldn't say a word. It was my choice, and I must stand by it,' he answered. 'It's for my mother! If I had only you, and was working for you, I would take the other track. But, you see, it is for her; and I'm her only son.' 'You will be August Scheffer, whatever you may do,' she said, in a soft, sweet voice. --And did August Scheffer ever stand for less among powers and places, than when, in the darkening wood shed, he spoke these words: 'But, Josey, will things always be the same with us?' --Things had changed, indeed. The whole world had changed since then. Had the changing world rolled in between them? Since then the widow Mitchell had worked her way out of the worst of her distresses. Josephine had become a beautiful woman. Paul was striding on toward a profession. The family had removed to one of those box-like dwellings opposite the college grounds, and the fair face of Mrs. Mitchell's daughter was the theme of many a student's dreaming--of Harry Cromwell's, most conspicuous among students--of his dreaming, day and night. It was his book she held. III. It happened, of course, that Paul dropped into Scheffer's shop the next day. August was on the lookout, and conducted him forthwith into a quiet corner. The books were there delivered, but the package remained unopened. Scheffer had his reasons. He wanted leisure to examine them--above all, privacy. He also saw, or thought he saw, that Paul was in haste to be gone; and there was something on his mind of which he desired to be free. Paul was only disturbed about a proposal he wished to make to Scheffer. He was electrified when Scheffer himself broached the subject, and transacted it half, at a stroke, though all unconsciously, by asking: 'What has become of Hal Cromwell? He took so many prizes last year.' Paul's eyes brightened strangely, his whole countenance became luminous. Scheffer surveyed the change as if it were not half agreeable to him. 'Harry is here yet, but he won't be long. That's a secret, though. He's going to France. Guess how.' 'In a balloon, I suppose. He hasn't any money.'