Bearing witness of prospering hopes and growing joys, nearly a twelvemonth passed away, and Fabens commenced his wheat harvest. The last fall seeding was more extensive than that of any former year; the snows came on early, and in kindly coverings, protected the tender blades through the winter. Spring rains fell in timely showers to wash it from mould, and revive it from the withering of frost and wind. The summer appeared early, as one of Nature's most genial and gentle, and he looked around on harvests large and white.

He went forth to his fields, with many men, and great preparations. The songs of the reapers were never more cheerful. The melting hours of July were never more manfully met. The home of our farmer had seldom less shadow with its light. Laborers found rarely a more liberal employer than he. He was generous in the wages he gave; he allowed more resting hours than any of his neighbors; he was less exacting in his demands; he always reserved the finest lambs and chickens to supply his table in that season; he had the best of spruce beer in Summerfield, and the clearest crystal water. And while with these mitigations, the toils of the harvesters were still hot and heavy to be borne, there was that in their fare, in their songs, and animation, which told of as much happiness, as may crown the tasks of labor.

To all his sympathies for the laborers, to all his efforts to cheer them, and temper their fatigues, and give them relief and refreshment, Mrs. Fabens and Fanny responded with expressions, more meaning than words. From the midst of the forenoon labors, they invited their help to refreshments under some green shade tree in the field; and in the long afternoon, three hours before supper, a refreshing lunch was again set before them, which would have answered well for supper; and it brought vigor once more to weary arms, and vigor to weary hearts; and called forth thanks from minds that abounded in gratitude, as in labor. Long and affectionately were they remembered by their men, as the bringers of joy and ministers of comfort, where joy and comfort were often craved in vain.

On one sweet afternoon, toward the last of the month, and the last of the harvest, a cool bland breeze swept over from the north, and rendered the time delightful. The sun still shone, and it was large and yellow as in October, but the breath of the north stole the sting of fire from its beams, and rallied a thrill of life and joy through the drooping hearts of beasts and men.

It was a pleasant hour to be enjoyed out of door, and it was welcomed as a blessing, by those who had kept in the shade; and Mrs. Fabens and her daughter hurried their preparations to be early in the field, with the evening meal.

"The men want to finish if they can, this week," said Mrs. Fabens, "and they have worked hard, very hard, since morning, and we must give them a good luncheon this time."

"We will take extra pains," responded Fanny, "and see how cheerful we can make them. It is so cool and pleasant out now, they will enjoy it, and we shall enjoy it better than usual, as Cousin William will be with us; and let it be something more than bread and butter. I feel so sorry for them, while they work so hard in the scorching sun to make us happy! Too much care cannot be done to refresh them, and warm up their hearts."

"Then, William has returned from Auburn, has he? Well, he shall see that country people can be happy and free-hearted, if they have not the city refinements. And we shall again find that the greatest good and joy on earth, we take in the good we do to others. They shall have something that will do them good."

"George Ludlow looked up to me so thankful, when I turned his bowl of coffee," said Fanny, "and it seemed to taste so good, and revive him so, I felt more than paid; I was myself refreshed by my trouble."

"It does them all good, not only to be refreshed with what nature requires, but to know that we care for them. These little acts of kindness can never be felt, except in pleasure by us, while they will direct a stray feeling of happiness to more than one deserving heart. It is a refreshment of the soul, to poor and rich, to know that others care for them. What should we live for, if not to lighten each other's labors, and make each other happy?"

"If what father believes is true, and it looks quite rational, we praise God most, when we are most like him, and are faithful and free-hearted to his children. And who of us desires more praise from those we wait on, than a look of gratitude, and the assurance that we have given a blessing? But, George did look so thankful! Poor George, how hard he has worked to be somebody in the world!"

"They all looked thankful, and what was better, they rose and went to work again with a lighter step, as though they felt younger and stronger. But, George has given you several such looks of late, and sometimes when your eyes were another way. I begin to think he means something."

"How you talk, mother!—What, looked at me several times? And when my eyes were another way?" returned Fanny, blushing like a quince blossom.

"Well, he cannot mean anything more than thanks for our small attentions."

"George is a fine young man," said Mrs. Fabens, "if the Cressey girls, and Desdemona Faddle do feel above him. They will set their caps in vain for Merchant Fairbanks, for he detests their foolish pride and finery as much as any one, and laughs in his sleeves, I'll warrant, at their dangling curls, and their silly lisping talk, when they try to speak polite to him; although he likes to flirt with them, and make them think he is ready to die for them."

"And why should they feel themselves better than George?" asked Fanny. "They don't astonish the world with good looks, or refinement of manners or mind. Their fathers are rich I know, and they have nothing to do but dress, and study etiquette. They can hardly stoop to what they call common people. But I don't envy them at all. They were always disliked at school, and were always at the foot of their class. If I were going to feel large and boast, I would want something besides wealth to feel large about. I am sure I would sooner envy George Ludlow, if he is not handsome, and is poor, and works out to support his father and mother. He knows something, and has riches of the heart I believe. But I cannot think why he should look at me, as you say, mother."

"I like your ideas of greatness, Fanny," replied Mrs. Fabens, "I like your ideas of greatness, and am glad you do not join those foolish girls in a pride that would despise such a young man. True greatness is of the mind, and riches are of the heart. But let us hurry with our refreshments, for it is beautiful out now, and they must be hungry, and we will enjoy it with them."

They plied themselves briskly, and about four o'clock the white cloths were laid under a cool maple shade-tree, and on them was spread a sumptuous lunch of fricasseed chickens, to be taken leisurely with flowing cups of coffee, and followed with saucers of raspberries and cream, and large and luscious pieces of blackberry pie. The look of thankfulness and cheer which the men all returned for such a refreshment, more than rewarded them, and sweet was the gratification with which they themselves and the good-hearted Fabens partook of the rural meal.

The presence of William Fabens also, enhanced the interest of the hour, and furnished conversation which all were glad to hear. William Fabens was a cousin of the Squire's, whom he had not seen before that month, since they were boys in Cloverdale. William had gone to New York city about the time Matthew went to Summerfield; and was now an intelligent merchant still in trade, and was out on his first visit to the Lake Country. He appeared much like the Squire, only a little more stately and active, and he possessed great practical wisdom and fine common sense. He carried a rich country nature to the city, and he had cultured it finely, and it was bearing fair and mellow fruit. He had a double life in consequence, and country life citified, perfected his capabilities and joys.

He had found that life in the country and town, was life in very different spheres, with different manifestations, and each a different set of lights and shadows. Life in the country was more natural, spontaneous and quiet; life in the town was more artistic, ambitious, and flushed with fever heats. Life in the country was picturesque, like the green, lovely landscapes in which it bloomed; life in the town was statuesque, like the flocking forms that pressed upon its sight and jostled it on its crowded way. Life in the country breathed in music; life in the town abounded in incidents and actions.

He remembered with grateful pleasure the noble occupations and amusements of country life. But he had profited well, and not lost, by the change. If it was a noble theme to study material nature in the landscape and sky, he found it still more noble to study moral nature in man; and man as he moved in the town, and acted in the drama of life that was daily brought before him. If it was delightful to read Milton or Beattie in a cornfield, in a clover meadow, under a tree, or on the haymow; it was more delightful to his mind to read the same author in a city, where, seeing more of men, he could understand him better. And whatever was beautiful in country life he carried with him to the town, with its green and radiant pictures still glowing on his heart, and its morning melodies still murmuring through his soul. And he could act out in deeds, what once he meditated in ideas. He was constantly called, by irresistible voices, to go out of himself, and out of his fixed and finite conceits and opinions, and mix with other souls; and transform his conceits to comprehensive conceptions, and enlarge his opinions to universal views.

From this rich and varied experience, and from these elevated ideas, William Fabens spoke, as he conversed with his cousin and the harvesters, while taking the harvest lunch.

"I suppose by this time, William, you are pretty well weaned of the country," said the Squire, after a changing conversation on several themes.

"O no, not at all," said William, "not at all. My love of the country is fresh and warm as ever. It is a singular fact, that almost all my dreams are laid in the country, on the old farm. I am often in the country in my mind, and receive much of my mental, as my physical sustenance, from country stores."

"I thought you would turn your back on the country and never think of its homely scenes again," said the Squire.

"I like the city in many respects better," said William; "so much better, that I prefer living there nine months in the year. But give me the country in the summer. In night dreams and day dreams, I return to the old homestead, to renew my youth, and refresh my sympathies and tastes. I think of the pride of the summer landscapes; and the pomp of summer sunsets. I sit in the shade of my old favorite trees and woods; I bathe my heart once more in the moonlight; my ears seem to tell me again of all the melodies of morning; the babbling brook; the lowing herd; the cowbell's simple chime; the murmur of bees and insects; the choral concerts that ring through the woods; and I am there, young and blooming as ever, and what Beattie's 'Minstrel' saw and heard, I seem to see and hear once more."

"I know not how it may be in cities," said the Squire; "but I have often noticed in our villages, that the countryman gets laughed at for his greenness. This never disturbed me. I have felt that we were inferior to none of their village bloods. Better be green on the surface than rotten at the core. And I have remembered how many great men of the world were bred in the country."

"The cities are often guilty of the same," said William, "forgetting how many angels they entertain unawares. Did ever a mortal man look more of the rustic clown than the country boy, Sam Johnson, when he first went to London? And could he not make dictionaries, and write Rasselas?"

"And who can imagine a more ludicrous object," asked the Squire, "than shabby, and chubby, and warty little Oliver Goldsmith, when he first waddled, staring and gaping, through Green-Arbor Court, and up Fishstreet Hill? And has he not given us prose and poetry that will live as long as the English tongue is known?"

"We might have laughed at Shakspeare," added William, "when, a green country runaway, he first entered the metropolis; we might have laughed at Dryden, coming up from the provinces in his coarse Norwich drugget and wooden shoes—over thirty years old, and not yet aware that he could write a line of verse. But for all that, did not Shakspeare write Hamlet? and Dryden give laws and models for English heroic verse?"

"And some might have thanked the Dumfries gentry for putting the rustic Burns in the kitchen with the servants to eat," added the Squire; "but did not Burns make a song there, to shame his proud insulters; and did he not sing—

'A man's a man for a' that.'

The temptations of the city are the most that I should fear."

"They are many and great," said William; "and I do not wonder that so many perish in the ordeal. Yet I know that people need not fall, if they will open their eyes, and act out their country nature. Evil affords a high and noble discipline when we meet it like men, and overcome its onsets. When men and women from the country have finished a course of city life, with warm hearts remaining in them, unsullied by corruptions they have seen, they are found to possess all the more strength of will, elevation of mind, and grace and grandeur of life, from the school from which they graduate. Each exercise of strength we take in resisting temptation, is the moral gymnastics that redoubles that power against the next encounter, and adds muscle and fire to all the capabilities of life. Each exercise of sense we take to discriminate between true and false life, true and false pleasure, true and false charmers, is a training of the intellect and judgment to more delicate discernments, and more virtuous and vital joys. A man enters the city as Hercules entered the world; the characters that go forth to meet him are like the true and false goddesses that met that hero and determined his choice; and that fine old fable shows that even the exercise of mind which is impelled by the two voices, will add new strength to one's being, cut out the blurs from his eyes, and make the judgment more active and perception more keen."

"That is all very true," said the Squire; "and your own life is an illustration. But if I should enter a city to live, I fear it would cool off my sympathies, and harden my heart."

"I should not fear that of you, Matthew," said William; "although it is the case with thousands. We need not be cooled or hardened. We see more of the evil side of life, to be sure; but it does not harden all. John Howard and Elizabeth Fry saw more of the evils of life than most city people. They visited the very dens of suffering want and imprisoned crime; but to them such sights were nobly instructive, and they grew great-hearted and noble while reading the lessons. Their sympathies were softened and warmed; their interest in humanity was redoubled, and their love for our race quickened and expanded, until they found no rest so sweet, as after long rounds of philanthropic labor; no delight so pure as kindness; no beauty so divine as charity; and no riches so ample and enjoyable as those laid up for benevolence, and those received back to the generous soul in return for gifts and deeds of good."

"You delight me, William," said the Squire; "and if you will go around lecturing the country people, you will see them all flocking to the town."

"The more, the better for us," said William. "They are the best materials of which the town can replenish its numbers and forces. Their great good sense; their healthy and generous instincts; their large and throbbing hearts; their picturesque minds and memories need only the discipline and finish of city life, to round them up into robust men and women of sweet and symmetrical characters, and fair and full-blooming souls."

On this occasion George Ludlow seemed to regard Fanny Fabens with increased attention; and as their glances more than once met, an artless, innocent blush would express on each face the timidity of their natures, if not the emotions of their hearts.

The truth to tell, George had contracted for Fanny an affection which he dared to disclose no more significantly, than by those expressions of the eye and face, which would not be concealed; and since the conversation in the house, he had scarcely been absent from her thoughts. She considered his pure life and enlightened mind, and inquired, "Where is the young man that has more nobleness than he?" She thought of his kindness to his parents, and admired the example. She called to mind his love of nature, and books, his efforts of improvement, even amid tasks of diligent toil; and she honored him in her soul; honored him the more for his own honor of his calling; and began to return a kindling flame of that affection, which she conceived he might indulge for her. But a few words were exchanged between them, however, and it remains for some future chapter to relate the result of those growing loves.

The men rose from their luncheon, when a cool and reviving hour had been taken, and while the women were departing with William to the house, and while Fabens remained under the maple, Merchant Fairbanks came up, and after the usual salutations, he talked a moment with the ladies, and then made Fabens an offer for his wheat crop, and commenced a pleasant talk.