There were few prouder men than Master Caleb, as he helped to gather together the scattered sheets, to go over calculations, and to get the pages ready for the printers. Dorothy, too, to make the work doubly pleasant, was always in her father's study, writing from his words, finding, as nobody else could, the papers he was for ever losing, and helping heart and hand at the finishing of the work. 'My last book, Dolly,' said the old man, putting his hand fondly on the head that was bending so intently over some of his crabbed writing. 'I shall never write another.' Dorothy looked up at him quickly, and tried to make a cheerful answer, that did not seem to come readily. 'No,' he went on, rather as if he was thinking aloud; 'no, I shall never write another. Perhaps already I have writ too much. But I am glad of this one, because it is well sold, and will help to make Dolly comfortable when I am gone. I've never done enough for her heretofore.' Dorothy looked up again, and laid her hand softly on his arm, glancing from him to Master Caleb, who was frowning over what looked like a long sum, and then at me, as I stood near the door waiting for some papers I was to carry to the post. By-and-by she brought them to me, and followed me out into the passage, shutting the door behind her. 'Is this all, Mistress Dorothy?' I asked, as she looked thoughtful. She turned round quickly. 'Thank you, Willie; yes, that's all. I don't see you often now,' she went on with a smile, 'but he likes me to be always with him; and do you know, I can't bear to be ever away from him. I cannot quite tell why.' 'Dolly,' called her father's voice, with the softness all gone out of it, sharp, short, and impatient. 'Dolly, who has touched the index? I can't find it.' She ran back into the study, with a nod and smile to me. So as no one wanted me at Morechester, I did not go there for a while, but stayed at home with Cuthbert, and mended up the old quarrel of a year ago, that he had never quite forgotten. We played at cricket in the glowing June evenings, until the long shadows faded quite away, and the blue of the sky darkened into purple. People are rather apt to lose count of time in the days of hay-making. Everybody is so busy. We did not go to school then. Early and late Cuthbert and I were in the fields at Furzy Nook. Farmer Foster wanted to have all his hay carried by the last days of June. 'And after that there'll be school beginning again,' said Cuthbert, with his old disconsolate look. We were leaning over the stile on Sunday evening, looking at the half-cut hay-fields, with their cocks of sweet-smelling hay. 'By-the-by, Will,' went on Cuthbert, 'what made Master Caleb look so solemn to-day? He went hobbling away through the churchyard as if he had been a hundred.'