a little awkward in his motions; but that was part of his fascination, Mrs. Barton thought. So thought certain of the young ladies in Robert's parish.
"Just exactly who is that great nice awkward Mr. Cawthorne of yours, Mr. Barton?" one day one of them asked Robert. "He helped us all day yesterday at the church, getting the scenery ready for our Guild play, and half of us have lost our hearts to him."
To-night Mrs. Barton was a little more impatient than usual with Nathan's silence; and in a fresh effort to break through it (the hour, the purring cat, the glowing ashes, were all conducive to confidences) she asked:
"Have you heard from the east lately, Nathan?"
He knew what she meant. He had not heard since last July. But Mrs. Barton must not know. She had once told him that she used to write to her husband every single day whenever they were separated.
"I haven't heard so very lately," he replied as lightly as he could. "But it isn't as if she thinks I'm here to get her letters when they're fresh, you know."
"I hope," Mrs. Barton went on, "they're nice letters when they do come."
"Oh, they are—they are," he murmured loyally; but as he spoke, the vision of Rebecca's brief little notes, and his studiously brief replies to match them flashed before him.
"Don't you think," pursued the persistent little Mrs. Barton, "you ought to tell her pretty soon what you've been up to since you saw her last?"
Nathan wanted to reply, "I'm beginning to think she doesn't care what I've been up to," but instead he said quietly, "I don't see that there is any hurry." He
