Insensibly, the absence of Doris was something of a relief to the honest farmer and his wife. When Doris was present, she kept them in a continual turmoil. They honestly believed themselves bound to correct her, to admonish her, to check her wild flow of words, the careless and often irreligious speech, and she never brooked the correction; so that most evenings in the old homestead were of a stormy nature. It was something of a relief, therefore, to have his homely wife on one side, and his daughter on the other. Honest Mark could indulge in that which his soul loved best; a few homely jests and solemn assurances of his own prosperity, while the bright, beautiful girl who puzzled him, was beyond the reach of his understanding, was busied in her own affairs.
"It is after nine," said Mark, "and I am tired. How was it that Earle did not return?"
"He knew that he could not see Doris," said Mattie, with a smile that was half a sigh.
Mark laughed when he was at a safe distance from her. There was nothing that Mark enjoyed more than what he called Doris' airs and graces.
"She keeps him in order," he said, slyly. "Mattie, if ever you think of being married, take a lesson from your sister, my dear."
"I hope she will not," said Mrs. Brace. "The true secret of being a good wife, Mattie, is to love your husband better than yourself; and though Doris is beautiful as a day-star, she will never do that."
Then Mark looked out into the quiet, white moonlight, and said:
"I shall begin to work in the Thorpe Meadows to-morrow, I hope the birds will wake me when the sun rises." And as he passed Doris' room he saw the light underneath the door. "Good-night," he said; "do not sit up late, writing, or you will spoil your eyes, and then Earle will grumble at me."
"I shall not be late," said Doris.
And Mark Brace, without a thought of the tragedy looming, went on.