“It is large print,” answered the girl, with a friendly laugh, as she returned to it. “And you are still resolved to be a sailor?” inquired Marvin, looking at him with kind eyes for ever asleep, it would appear, in some long slumber which must have been the death of one of the sources of human energy--of ambition or of hope. “Until I find a better calling,” answered Loo Barebone, with his eager laugh. “When I am away I wonder how any can be content to live in Farlingford and let the world go by. And when I am here I wonder how any can be so foolish as to fret and fume in the restless world while he might be sitting quietly at Farlingford.” “Ah,” murmured the rector, musingly, “you are for the world. You, with your capacities, your quickness for learning, your--well, your lightness of heart, my dear Loo. That goes far in the great world. To be light of heart--to amuse. Yes, you are for the world. You might do something there.” “And nothing in Farlingford?” inquired Barebone, gaily; but he turned, as he spoke, and glanced once more at Miriam Liston as if in some dim way the question could not be answered by any other. She was absorbed in her book again. The print must indeed have been large and clear, for the twilight was fading fast. She looked up and met his glance with direct and steady eyes of a clear grey. A severe critic of that which none can satisfactorily define--a woman's beauty--would have objected that her face was too wide, and her chin too square. Her hair, which was of a bright brown, grew with a singular strength and crispness round a brow which was serene and square. In her eyes there shone the light of tenacity, and a steady purpose. A student of human nature must have regretted that the soul looking out of such eyes should have been vouchsafed to a woman. For strength and purpose in a man are usually exercised for the good of mankind, while in a woman such qualities must, it would seem, benefit no more than one man of her own generation, and a few who may follow her in the next. “There is nothing,” she said, turning to her book again, “for a man to do in Farlingford.” “And for a woman--?” inquired Barebone, without looking at her. “There is always something--everywhere.” And Septimus Marvin's reflective “Yes--yes,” as he paused in his walk and looked seaward, came in appropriately as a grave confirmation of Miriam's jesting statement. “Yes--yes,” he repeated, turning toward Barebone, who stood listening to the boy's chatter. “You find us as you left us, Loo. Was it six months ago? Ah! How time flies when one remains stationary. For you, I dare say, it seems more.” “For me--oh yes, it seems more,” replied Barebone, with his gay laugh, and a glance toward Miriam. “A little older,” continued the rector. “The church a little mouldier. Farlingford a little emptier. Old Godbold is gone--the last of the Godbolds of Farlingford, which means another empty cottage in the street.”