That moment Joseph came in from the garden, where he had been walking by himself, for the day was fine, and he loved to gratify his eye for colors, even among the vegetable beds and coarse garden flowers, and had been quietly enjoying them till the dusk drove him in-doors. Mary looked toward him wistfully. She remembered that for some days he had seemed sad and preoccupied, going alone by himself and drawing only sad strains from his violin. "Aunt Hannah, I am glad you are here," said the youth, moving slowly toward his seat by the stand; "I want to talk a little with you!" Mary had drawn back as he came in; there was no candle lighted, and she was lost in shadow. As he spoke, Mary started and would have gone out, but aunt Hannah extended her hands to prevent it, and the youth sat down sighing heavily, doubtless unconscious of her presence. Two or three times, as was his habit when thoughtful, he drew the slender fingers of his right hand through his hair, scattering the curls back on his temples. At length he spoke, but with hesitation. "Aunt!" "Well, Joseph!" and the old lady began to knit. "Aunt, I come to say"--He paused, and drew the hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to sweep aside some inward pain. Aunt Hannah remained silent, knitting diligently. "I must go away from here, aunt; you have given me shelter when I most needed it. Now I must take to the world again." Mary listened with a sinking heart and parted lips that grew cold and white with each word. At last a wild sob arose in her throat, and the veins upon her forehead swelled with the effort she made to suppress it. "You wish to leave us, then?" questioned aunt Hannah, coldly, "and why?" "My life is idle here, utterly idle and dependent. God did not smite all the pride from my soul when he took my father. I cannot live on the toil of two old people whom my own hands should support." "But you are welcome Joseph; and we love to have you with us." "I know it--still, this should make me only more anxious to relieve your generosity of its burden." "This is not all," said aunt Hannah, mildly, "you keep the principal reason back for leaving us, tell me what it is?" "Perhaps I ought--though the reason I have given should be enough. Yes, aunt, there is another motive--do not laugh at my folly, that I cannot dwarf myself and become a helpless nonentity, without a struggle to grasp the blessings so much desired by other men. It has been a happy time that I have known at the Old Homestead, still what has it secured to me but unrest, and such disquiet as will follow me through life, unless I work out a destiny for myself like other men?" He broke off, hesitating for words, and a faint blush stole over his face even in the darkness. Aunt Hannah felt his embarrassment, and had compassion on him. "I know all about it," she said, quietly, "you love Mary Fuller. She is a good girl. Why not?"