“Well, dear,” said the mother looking up from her work, —­ “did you find them?”

The child’s answer was to spring to her side, throw her arms round her neck, and burst into convulsive tears.

“Winifred!” —­ said Mrs. Landholm, putting an arm round the trembling child, and dropping her work, —­ “what ails you, dear? —­ tell me.”

The little girl only clung closer to her neck and shook in a passion of feeling, speechless; till the mother’s tone became alarmed and imperative.

“It’s nothing, mother, it’s nothing,” she said, clasping her hard, —­ “only —­ only —­”

The words were lost again in what seemed to be uncontrollable weeping.

“Only what, dear? —­ what?”

“Winthrop was crying.”

And having said that, scarce audibly, Winifred gave way and cried aloud.

“Winthrop crying! —­ Nonsense, dear, —­ you were mistaken.”

“I wasn’t —­ I saw him.”

“What was the matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“What made you think he was crying?”

“I saw him!” cried the child, who seemed as if she could hardly bear the question and answer.

“You were mistaken, daughter; —­ he would not have let you see him.”

“He didn’t —­ he didn’t know I was there.”

“Where were you?”

“I was behind the fence —­I stopped to look at him —­ he didn’t see me.”

“Where was he?”

“He was ploughing.”

“What did you see, Winifred?”

“I saw him —­ oh mamma! —­ I saw him put his hand to his eyes, —­ and I saw the tears fall —­”

Her little head was pressed against her mother’s bosom, and many more tears fell for his than his had been.

Mrs. Landholm was silent a minute or two, stroking Winifred’s head and kissing her.

“And when you went into the field, Winifred, —­ how was he then?”

“Just as always.”

“Where was Rufus?”

“He was on the other side.”

Again Mrs. Landholm was silent.

“Cheer up, daughter,” she said tenderly; —­ “I think I know what was the matter with Winthrop, and it’s nothing so very bad —­ it’ll be set right by and by, I hope.  Don’t cry any more about it.”

“What is the matter with him, mamma?” said the child looking up with eyes of great anxiety and intentness.

“He wants to read and to learn, and I think it troubles him that he can’t do that.”

“Is that it?  But mamma, can’t he?” said his sister with a face not at all lightened of its care.

“He can’t just now very well —­you know he must help papa on the farm.”

“But can’t he by and by, mamma?”

“I hope so; —­ we will try to have him,” said the mother, while tears gathered now in her grave eyes as her little daughter’s were dried.  “But you know, dear Winnie, that God knows best what is good for dear Governor, and for us; and we must just ask him to do that, and not what we fancy.”