"Then why are you not happy, precious?"
"Happy? Why, my dear, I am happy!"
"With touches of heartache?"
"Oh, with big wrenches of heartache! Why not? Were you never so?"
"I'm so right now, dearie. For after all is said"--
"And thought that can't be said"--murmured Isabel.
"Yes," replied the mother, "after all is said and thought, I should rather give you to Arthur than to any other man I know. Leonard will have a shining career, but it will be in politics."
"I tried to dissuade him," broke in the daughter, "till I was ashamed."
"In politics," continued Mrs. Morris,--"and Northern politics, Isabel. Arthur's will be in the church!"
"Yes," said the other, but her whole attention was within the fence at their side, where a rough stile, made in boyhood days by the two brothers an