“You are the best sister a fellow ever had,” and swallowing something that rose in his throat, marched off through the fields directly away from the house.  I gathered up my work and scrap book, went in and prepared the supper, showing outwardly no emotion, but with my heart throbbing as if it would tell the secret on which I pondered, while I wondered how I should tell my mother.

Hal came in late to supper.  I rushed from the table when I heard his footsteps, and sought my room until I heard him coming up to his room, when I went down stairs and busied myself with my work as usual.

I washed the milk pans three or four times over that night, and was about carrying them into the “best room,” when mother said,

“Why, Emily, we keep our milk pans in the buttery.”

“Oh!” I said, turning suddenly and letting my pans fall and scatter.  And when I picked them up and collected my senses, I thought, “I cannot tell mother to-night after all, Hal will stay with us.”  When things were at last in their places, I sauntered out through the lane in the beautiful moonlight, and coming back met Hal who took my hand in his and whispered,

“Tell mother to-morrow, please, I want to go away next month and some things are necessary to be done.”

“Have you told father yet?”

“No, but he will not care.”

“Father will care,” I replied, “but you know since his misfortune, and his conclusion that he cannot do anything but carry on the farm, he seems to have lost his sprightly step and his cheery ways of old.”

“Well, Emily,” said Hal, “I am no help to him on the farm, and could not be if I tried, and the work I am doing now is anything but satisfying to me.”

Then the thought occurred to me, I had no idea of what the boy desired to accomplish, and the question what would you do Hal? was answered in this wise—­

“Wait till I’ve been away six months.”

“To build mud houses and fill them with mud people, was your favorite amusement when you were a boy, I remember,” I said, and he gave me such a queer look that I started with the impression that came with it, but said no more, and we walked along and went into the house together.

The next day after dinner, when we were cleared up and alone in quiet, I told mother.  She was of course covered with surprise, but her words came in wisdom and she said: 

“I can imagine what Halbert desires to do, and although the way looks anything but clear, still I know I can trust him anywhere.  He is a blessed son and brother, Emily, and I doubt not I am selfish to feel saddened by the thought of his leaving home (and a tear drop fell as she spoke).  I only fear he may be sick.  His lungs are not very strong.”

“What will father say?” I asked.

“Father’s heart will miss him but he will not seek to stay an endeavor of his earnest, ambitious boy.”