Meanwhile in the little house among the Connecticut hills, which was "home, sweet home" to Doris, life was taking on new aspects for her brother and her friend.
Mark and his mother were walking slowly through the apple orchard, on an April day, looking with practised eyes at the swelling buds, and calculating the chances for a good "apple year."
"My son, how old are you?'' asked Mrs. Banner seriously.
"Surely, mother, you ought to know. I shall be twenty-two the last day of May."
"We know things that we ask sometimes. At least mothers do."
"The trees promise well, mother; but what were you thinking?"
"Deacon Brown came over to-day after you went to Mr. Mather's, and he says a man who owns a sawmill wants to buy his woodland at the foot of the mountain, if he can get our woodlot adjoining. Deacon Brown is anxious to sell, and hopes that we will consider it. The man offers one thousand dollars cash for ours."
"No, indeed, mother, we will not sell one foot of this old farm to please Deacon Brown or a deacon of any color. I love every foot of it," said Mark indignantly, and his face flushed as Doris's might have done.
"Softly, dear; I was not thinking of him, but of you."
"You are always thinking of me, mother."
He turned to answer her smile with his own, grave and sweet, the flush dying from his fore- head. She slipped her hand through his arm, and as they walked up and down under the bare branches, his fair young head bent to meet her loving eyes, deep and blue, shaded by silvering hair, under the snowy frill of her cap, the April sun fell shimmering around them, while now in wordless speech, now in earnest conversation, they communed with each other or planned for the future.
"It isn't fair, mother, for me to take the money; the girls are to be considered."
"My dear son, you have borne the burdens of a man for a long time. Listen to my plan. Take half the money as absolutely yours, and when a final settlement must be made, deduct the other five hundred from your share. Amelia and Doris will be quite willing, and we are all anxious to have you enter college next fall. Mr. Mather told me the other day that you were nearly ready for the Junior year, but that he would advise you to enter Sophomore and take extra studies. It will give you a broader course, and you ought to have three full years in college. With economy I feel sure that you will be able to meet the expense."
"But the farm, mother, and you and Doris; you seem to forget the work that must be done to keep things going."
"No, I do not forget. A letter came from Amelia to-day which seems like a special Providence. Of course she is anxious for you too, and as a change is coming in her hushand's family, she and Charles are about deciding to make a change also."
"Nothing disastrous, I hope."
"Oh, no; his youngest brother is to be married shortly, and would like to stay near home. The farm, you know, belongs to the father, and Amelia writes that they are willing to come here and relieve you completely."
"When can they come, mother?"
"After the summer harvests are gathered. You can go on with the spring work as usual, and leave everything in good shape. No one can take your place, Mark; but I want you to go. Oh, what a son you have been!"
Her voice trembled and the tears came to her eyes. Her son drew a strong arm about her.
"Mother, he whispered with deep emotion, "you are too good to me, you are all too good; I am not worthy."
He hushed the protest on her lips with a reverent kiss; and they went silently home together.
Doris came flying down the path to meet them.
"Will he do it, mother? Say, sir, will you do it?" She seized him by the arms and tried to shake him. "I don't know how we can ever live on the farm without you, but I want you to go, I want you to go."
"Yes, Miss Whirlwind, I am going."
She made a profound curtsey.
"Bachelor of Arts, Master of Arts - Mark West Banner - I am proud to make your acquaintance," and the three went merrily on.
"Sis," said Mark, "I want you to finish six books of Virgil before I go, get those four books of the Anabasis over, and have a taste of Homer. Think you can do it?"
"I am only waiting for a chance to distinguish myself, sir," Doris answered demurely, then wheeling suddenly about: "Mark, let me do this. I'm just craxy to read Homer. Let me begin right away and do all I can before you go. Then I'll finish the Anabasis by myself and send you written translations, and if I get stuck fast you can pull me out. May I?"
Her blue eyes were wistful and she unconsciously clasped her hands.
"To be sure you may; that is a fine plan."
"Where is he, O where is Homer? I'll run and get him this minute. You will see."
She flew up the path while mother and brother watched her with loving eyes.
"She is a dear little girl," said Mark, "and amazingly clever, too, for a female," he added. "How Mr. Mather used to 'rile' her."
"She is a precious child," said Mrs. Banner, "and a treasure to us all." They went in to find Doris wholly absorbed.
"See, Mark, if I have this first line right."
[line of Greek text]
" 'The wrath sing, O Goddess, of Achilles, son of Peleus.'
"No this is better:
" 'Sing, O Goddess, the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus.' "
" 'That is a good beginning. Want to help me milk?"
"Greek and the milking stool are not antagonistic," remarked Doris sagely, as she settled to her task and filled the foaming pail.
Summer brought again its fulness of life to farm and home, and the busy days and weeks sped swiftly to the harvest time.
Kind Mrs. Jones invited Keren, returned from a year of successful teaching, to spend the summer in her old home, where, as a helpful guest, she bore little resemblance to the orphan child, "bound out" long to those who, although not of her kin, were in these later years proving themselves friends. Doris and she contrived to see each other nearly every day, and many and often were the times
"They tired the sun with talking
And sent him down the sky."
"We will never, never stop loving each other so long as we live, and longer too," declared Doris emphatically. True little prophet, they never did.
June brought a pang to the mother's heart. Doris came to her in a June twilight, with a flushed and eager face:
"What do you think, mother? This is the strangest world I ever saw."
"Is it?"
"Don't laugh at me, mother; but John Allen is here."
"Well, who is John Allen and how did he get here? Is he dangerous, do you think?"
"Oh, mother, don't you remember the boy who studied Latin with me at Miss Grey's school?"
"And you tried to ruin his health by making him study so hard to keep up with you? Yes, I remember."
"Well, will you believe it? His mother is Mrs. Jones's own sister, and they have come to pay her a visit. Mrs. Jones has been to see her, but she has not been here for fifteen years. John wants to know if he may come over to see me. Are you willing?"
"I suppose he may. Be sure that Mark meets him when he comes, and bring him straight to your mother, and let her have a look at him. There can be no harm in seeing your old schoolmate, surely."
Doris slipped amay to find her brother, and the mother turned her face to the purple west, with a catch in her breath as from sudden sharp pain.
"I am afraid," she murmured to herself, "that my baby is growing up."
"Doris," said Mark, a few weeks later, "do you care anything for that callow youth?"
"Mercy, Mark, you look positively fierce. If you don't change your countenance this minute I shall have to run away and cry. What has poor John done?"
"Done? Nothing that I can discover, nor ever will. I should like to shake him until he rattled."
"Yes, he has done something too. He is ready for college and is going to enter next fall, but not at A----,'' cried Doris indignantly.
"Thank fortune; I don't believe I could keep my hands off him, especially if he goes to hanging around you."
"Do you think he is bad, Mark?" asked Doris, nearly ready to cry.
"No, he is not bad; neither is he good. There is not enough to him to be good, though such people sometimes have enough to them to be bad. Be careful, dear little sister," said Mark gently; "he is not worth caring much for."
Doris turned away with hot cheeks. In her pocket was a note, bidding her good-by and signed,
"Semper fides,
John."
She put the note in her treasure-box when she went to bed. But John had asked nothing beyond an occasional letter, and there was nothing else to tell either mother or Mark. One evening, early in July, Keren stood suddenly in the doorway as the Banner family were sitting in the twilight. She had far outgrown the promise of her childhood, and looked worthy to be a daughter of Job, but she did not know it. She had still a yearning wish to be "fair to look upon." She could never realize the glory of her Titian hair, and the eloquence of her dark-brown eyes, and as her mirror confided to her none of the changing charm of her expressive mobile features, she had decided to be "philosophic," and accept what was to her a plainness of face as patiently as possible.
"Dear Mrs. Banner, may I come in? I have something wonderful to tell you, and I cannot wait until to-morrow. Besides, I want your advice."
"Certainly, dear child; you are always welcome."
"What is it?" cried Doris. "Tell us quickly. I can't imagine what it can be. Are you going to get married, and have never said a word to me about it?"
"If I ever get married, Doris, you shall know my expectations as soon as I do. I promise you that 'true blue.' You all know how I came by my unusual name, and the promise given of a thousand dollars when I should be twenty-one, to compensate me for the infliction and affliction."
"Keren is a pretty name, isn't it, Mark?" interrupted Doris.
"I think so," said Mark slowly, with an unexpected flush. Why, he wondered, had the name grown so dear to him and he unconscious of its spell.
"Well, to-day," Keren went on, "Mr. Jones brought me a fat letter when he came from the post-office, and it was from a lawyer, who has held it in trust all these years. The money was put at interest when my mother's uncle died, and it now amounts to fifteen hundred dollars. I have long had a dream, and I think now it may come true."
"Didn't you believe you would ever get it, Keren?" asked Doris.
"It seemed a far-away, impossible thing. I have never heard a word from the lawyer before, but it seems he has kept track of me, and as I am of age, he writes that it is at my disposal.
"Now for my dream - I want to go to Mt. Holyoke next October, and take the full course until I am graduated. Is that the best thing to do, Mrs. Banner?"
"Most assuredly, my child. What do Mr. and Mrs. Jones say about it - for, of course, you have told them?"
"Mrs. Jones is a little doubtful, but hopes that it is all right. She cannot exactly understand why a female should want to know more than I do now, but she is always kind, and says that I must feel that I have a home with them whenever I need a home or care to come."
"And Mr. Jones?"
Keren laughed merrily.
"Sartin'," he says; "sartin', Keren must always feel that this is her hum; always to hum here; but when gals take so to larnin', I think it is agin natur'. Now, 'pears ter me I'd put this ere money out, or buy a snug little farm and rent it, and teach school; or, better yit, git married and live on't. I must say Keren can make as good butter as ever I eat.' "
"They are your true friends, Keren."
"Yes, Mrs. Banner; and I love them sincerely. Now I have a request to make of you all, and I beg that you will not refuse me. Let me have Doris for my mate-sister, and let me bear the expense. You can never know what you have done for me, and it will be a very poor return. O please do not say no."
Thev were all silent, until Mrs. Banner said quietly:
"We do appreciate your loving thought, dear child; but we cannot permit that. We hope that Doris may go later, next year perhaps; but for the present she will stay at home."
She spoke with a gentle firmness that, they all knew, made further argument useless. Presently Mark broke the awkward silence.
"I have a plan which I think you will all approve; it just came to me. When are the anniversary exercises at Mt. Holyoke, Keren?"
"I am not quite sure," Keren answered; "I think about the last of July."
"I want to go to A---- to make arrangements for entering college next year. What do you say to a carriage journey for all of us? You, mother, admire Miss Lyon and will enjoy seeing and hearing her. Keren and Doris can look up seminary conditions. Of course, we shall drive both horses, and I can put up one horse and the carriage at South Hadley, and ride the other horse to A----, stay a day or two, and come back after you. What do you say?"
"Mark, you are a wizard. There couldn't possibly be anything better. Mother, do please say yes. My new pink, all-wool delaine will be just the thing to wear at the exercises. Keren, you must finish your white frock right away. I have a fresh pink ribbon for my bonnet, and, Keren, you must get a dark green one for yours; and your handsome black silk, mother - "
"Child, what a rattle-box you are! We have not started yet."
"But you will go, mother; say that you will go."
"Yes, I think that we must go. What do you say, Keren?"
"I scarcely know what to say, I am so glad. Yes, indeed, I shall be most happy to go."
"You must write at once, Keren," said Mrs. Banner; "I am a little fearful that it will be too late to get a place now for next year."
"It seems strange how circumstances fit themselves to our needs," said Keren thoughtfully. "Only yesterday a young lady that I knew well, where I was teaching, wrote me that she had engaged a place at Mt. Holyoke for next year, but finds that she cannot go. She wished that I might take her place. When I read her letter it was an impossibility; now I can write at once to secure it."
"God is planning for us, dear children, when we do not know it," said Mrs. Banner, rising, and the conference ended.