The fall is a busy time in a farmer's household—with the gathering of grain, clearing up of fields, and making all due preparations for the coming winter; and it is beautiful also. This year, however, the many colored leaves had sought the ground unnoticed by me; for my days had been absorbed in thought and, instead of looking at things about me, if I had a spare moment I wandered in the realms of feeling.

November had come to us with Louis' departure, and the weeks between his coming and going seemed, as I looked back, like a few hours only, crowded together as a day before me with the strange events, and stranger thoughts, whose existence from that time onward has forced me to own their supremacy and power. Hal's artist friend, Professor Benton, was coming to see him—and I wished it were May instead of November, for it seemed to me the outer attractions of our country home were much greater than the inner, and I could not see how he was to be entertained. Clara's side (as we called the four rooms she had added) would be the only attraction, and since Hal was domiciled there, that would be the right place. Many paintings adorned the walls, and to me there was such a contrast between our middle room and its belongings, and the sunny chamber occupied by Hal, that whenever I looked on the massively-framed pictures there, they seemed out of place. Clara was fond of having them in sight, and labored hard to have her loves ours. Every other evening we were forced to occupy that side of the house and I wonder, as I look back, that my father could have been so obedient to her wishes. She would sit on an ottoman between him and my mother and often with her head resting against the arm of his chair, talking with us of our farm, the plans for winter, and the fences to be built with the coming spring; and she was never satisfied unless allowed to be really one of us. The building she had done was accredited to my father, for she would not have it otherwise, and when his spirit of independence prompted him to refuse her board-money afterward, she looked at him with tears in her eyes and said:

"Why must I be repelled, Mr. Minot? Please let me stay here always. I have no comfort if I have no one to be happy with, and you must take this from me."

She was no trouble, and such a small eater that she must have paid us four times over for all she had. Father thought at first her impulsive gifts would be of short duration, but months had revealed her to us, and we realized that she was a marvel of goodness. Not only interesting herself in us but in others. Weekly visits were made by her to the poor in our parish, and blessings fell on her head in prayers rising from the lips of her grateful friends. The semi-monthly sewing circle she caused to be appointed at our house (her side), and with her own hands made all the edibles necessary on every occasion. She shrank from making calls upon those who were not in need of her services, and never went willingly to any public gathering. I never knew why, but she was morbidly sensitive on this point. Once she was over-persuaded, and went to an old-fashioned quilting party with mother, and she came home in a fainting condition, and we worked over her until after midnight.

"I am so cold here," she said, placing her hand on her heart—"I will not go out any more, Mrs. Minot; it hurts me."

We never afterward urged her, nor explained her suffering to the friends who inquired. She exacted a promise to that effect.

What a strange being our lovely Clara was! She grew to our hearts as ivy to the oak, and the tendrils of her nature entwined us, creeping a little nearer daily, until the doors of our hearts were covered with their growing beauty. I should be writing all about her, and not bring myself into my story at all, but the promise I made you must be fulfilled. At some other time I may write out for you the life and work of this beautiful friend. My own experience seems to me only a background against which her picture ought to rest. I have been rambling, for you remember I began to tell you about the coming of Hal's artist friend from Chicago. I believe it was the fifteenth of November when he came, and his presence was not a burden as I feared, for he found and filled a place held in reserve for him, and all united with me in saying: "What a splendid man he is!"

Brother Ben, who was now at an interesting age, called him "a man to study," and he seemed to be fascinated by him. His eyes followed every motion, and his ear was keenly alive to every expression of thought. I sometimes thought Hal wished Ben did not like him as well, for he was constantly availing himself of his society. Some work fortunately had to be done, else Hal would have been very much troubled to gain an audience. Clara did not like the artist quite as well as I did, though she said with the rest, "What a splendid man!" and betrayed by no word or act any disregard for his feelings, still I intuitively felt a something she did not say; and when I told her he had made an arrangement to stay all winter, she clasped her white hands together tightly, and between two breaths a sigh came fluttering from her lips, while tears gathered in the blue of her eyes, as the white lids fell to cover what she would not have me notice. Although a pain and wonder filled my heart for a moment, I knew if Clara wished me to divine her feelings she would explain herself, and her silence left me to my own conjectures. I said to myself "Some thought of the past has come over her," for I could not see how the stay of Wilmur Benton could affect her happiness. He treated her with great deference and seemed to realize with us that she had a rare organization. His stay was a matter of great interest with Hal, as Hal was to gain from him the instruction he needed, and they expected to get much enjoyment from working together. Louis would be with us through the holidays, and Mr. Benton would, I knew, enjoy that, for he insisted that it was the magic of his hand that had saved Hal's life, and he looked on him as a real blessing. The two artist souls blended as one, and drank daily deep draughts from the fountain of an inspiring genius, and as I watched the work grow under their hands, and the plastic and senseless clay become a fair statue, lacking nothing save breath and motion to reveal an entity, I questioned if the power was really theirs, or if their hands had touched a secret spring and were guided outside of themselves. It really never seemed like exertion, and to sense this wondrous art was to me the asking of questions deeper than any among us could answer.

Hal's statue of dear Aunt Hildy was copied, and improved also by Mr. Benton, who considered it a masterpiece, and the respect we bore our friend was not lessened, even though there were those among us who might speculate as to the motive that prompted it.

We never called her funny, but original, and good as gold. Our family numbered now seven people, and with the farm work in addition to the daily preparation of meals, the clearing up and upsetting again of things, there were many steps to take, and Aunt Hildy was installed as our help in need.

These were the days of help—not servants—when honest toil was well appreciated by sensible people, and no hurried or half-done work fell from their hands, but the steady doing resulted in answering the daily demands.

"It's a bunch of work to do; it is, indeed, Mrs. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.

"But we'll master it."

"I ain't never going to be driven by work, nor aristocracy neither. It's a creepin' in on us, though, like the snake in the garden, just to make folks think they can get more comfort out of fixin's than they can out of the good old truths. I can't be fed on chaff; no, I can't."

And her sleeves would go up to her elbows, and she would march through work like a mower through a field.

Her coming gave me a chance to do some sewing, and with Clara's help about cutting (and she sewed with me), the needed spring and summer apparel and house linen were fashioned and made ready for use. The days passed pleasantly to us all, and though I had watched Clara closely, she betrayed neither by word nor sign anything that savored of dislike toward Professor Benton; and still, sometimes, I felt that unexplainable something that once in a while tried as it were to shape itself before me, and as often vanished in mist. We had long evenings, and many new topics were introduced and discussed. I had access to Clara's large and well selected library, and I improved every opportunity to inform myself on doubtful subjects. Sometimes I despaired of knowing anything new, and again my brain would seem clearer, and would take in the new thoughts with keen perception. When, however, we came to talk upon these same subjects, I sat nearly dumb; I could summon no thoughts nor words to frame them. Even this stupidity had its advantage, for Mr. Benton (Hal called him Will) was a good talker, and had, as all talkers have, a great respect for a good listener, and he often said to me:

"You have a heart to appreciate rare truths, Miss Minot."

Clara was gifted in conversation, but did not always express her sentiments with great freedom.

If we touched on things nearest her heart, and I believe the doing of good each to the other was her highest thought, she was at home, and her blue eyes would glow with light, as in her own sweet way she talked long and earnestly. I shall never forget the first time Mr. Benton noticed this point in her organization. The newsmonger of our town had been to see us, had spent the afternoon and taken tea, and while it was amusement for me to hear her gossip incessantly about this thing and that, this person and the other, Clara was greatly annoyed by it. It caused a righteous indignation to rise within her, and when after the visit we were seated by the antique centre table in her sitting-room, the conversation turned upon the peculiarities of this scandal-loving Jane North.

Clara expressed herself freely on the subject of small talk, as she termed scandal. Her eyes dilated, her small hands were folded tightly, and when she closed it was with this last feeling sentence:

"I can only say, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,' who scatter the theme of contention where roses should appear, and in tearing down the habitation of their neighbors lose also their own; for they who have respect for themselves will have respect for their neighbors. May we yet live to understand the meaning of the words, 'Love ye one another.' When this shall be, oh, my more than friends, when this shall be, we shall know each other, even as we are known! No secret blight shall cover any life, no worm of regret gnaw at the tree of our unfolding lives! We shall all be as a unit, and our Father who seeth us in secret shall then reward us openly! Yea, more, for are not we ourselves capable of holding communion with this part of God within us? We know our souls are with us to-day, and it is only because the roots of thought are covered, and the feet of envy, hatred and malice are pressing, the hard soil against them, that the tendrils of our loving natures are never asked to climb, and the eternal ivy of our great love reaches not the windows of expressed thought, else our hands would be made strong to do daily that which is found to do with all our might."

Her last beautiful utterance finished, she closed her eyes as if covered with the mantle of her holy thoughts, and we all sat in a breathless silence. Aunt Hildy who sat in the corner (by preference) stirred not a muscle from the beginning to the close of her talk, and Mr. Benton looked first in wonder then in admiration, and when our silence was broken by a fervent "Amen" from Aunt Hildy, he added:

"'Even so let it be.' Those thoughts are beautiful."

Clara looked at him with an almost reproachful glance, the import of which I could not understand.

I was not sensitive like Clara; perhaps intuitive would express it better. She seemed to understand every one's nature on the first meeting, and I had marvelled many tunes at her accuracy in reading character.

She told me that her heart went out to Aunt Hildy at their first meeting, and I felt convinced now there was something about this new friend that no one save herself could detect, and whether it had shape with her or not was a question.

Three weeks of Mr. Benton's stay had passed when this incident occurred, and from that hour there was a marked change in his manner toward her. I could see, ignorant as I was of the phases of life, how he was attracted to her. This glimpse of her wondrous nature had opened his eyes, and perhaps touched his heart. His age must be about hers, I thought, and how strange if it should be that he loved her. But here I run into a mist where nothing was plain. Days will tell the story, I thought, and we were sure of days and changes while life lasted. It became plain to me after a little that Clara felt the change in his manner toward her, and in every quiet move of hers I detected the disposition on her part to repel any advances. She gave him no opportunity to be with her alone, and if by chance this happened, her sweet voice would call "Emily, come in this way, we are lonely without you," and her eyes would turn on me when I entered with a sort of wistful glance. It always reminded me of a child looking confidently into the eyes of its mother, expecting the help it was sure to find. I hardly enjoyed this, for I knew Mr. Benton thought me old enough to discern a little, and he must have believed us to be in league together, whereas no word had passed between us on the subject until just before Christmas, when Louis was expected.

Clara and I were sitting busily sewing and talking of the coming of "her dear boy," when she let her sewing fall and sat as in thought a few moments before she spoke.

"Emily (and she spoke slowly and with earnestness. I felt frightened for her cheek grew white as the words fell from her lips), when Louis comes keep close to me all the time, will you? Oh! I know you will, and since I ask such a favor, it is only right I should tell you all about it. I know, for I feel it in here (and she laid her hand on her head), that Professor Benton desires to talk to me. He must not be allowed to, Emily, for if he does it will hurt me so much. I will tell you why, and I know you will tell it to no one."

I looked an assent and she continued:

"He thinks that he might like me so well that he would wish me near him for ever. But he does not know that I cannot let him say this to me. It would be hard to make him understand me; he never could. And then if he should know me very well, it would be all wrong. I love my Louis Robert, and he is waiting on the hills for me. Yes, my dear Emily, he waits for me there. Did he not say so when he died, and will he not come for me some day when I shall be a little more weary, and this beating heart grows colder? He says he will and I am always with him in my thoughts. It almost hurts me to live at all. Can you see, Emily, can you know how it is because I need you all so much that I must stay with you? Professor Benton has a good heart, but it feels cold to me. His art obscures from him all else; he can love no one as he loves a picture. Now you will promise me, no not with words—I would only feel your arm around me, and with my hand in yours feel you are my trusted one—my soul friend and my great help."

Silence was ill suited to my feelings at that moment. I gathered her gentle form to me, and held her tight while those ever ready tears of sympathy filled my eyes full, and I spoke honestly when I said:

"I don't care a fig for Mr. Benton, and if he troubles you I will send him back to Chicago, and I wish he had never come at all."

"Oh! oh! do not say it; I shall fear to have you know my heart, it makes you rebellious. It is well that he came, as your brother needs him, and you do wrong to say such words. Wait, Emily, keep quiet, you are like a wind when your thoughts are stirred, and time, my love, will help you to make your hand strong, and your heart also. It is on a full tide and with a steady wind that vessels find the sea, while changeful blasts will shipwreck them, and then cast their wrecks upon the shore. And so it is with mortals; we have to keep saying, wait! while we pray to be guided aright."

"I am always running off the track, Clara, I know; teach me to know myself and let me help you; you are so different; I shall never be like you," I said.

"And you do not wish to be, I hope," was her reply.

"I would like more of your quiet spirit, but that belongs to you, and if I wait and work hard to do it, I shall always be upsetting what I wish to do, and plaguing others instead of helping—" Mother came in and our talk was at an end.