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“We don’t want another farm, father!” said David and Jonathan together.

“I know you don’t think so, now. A wife seemed far enough off from me when I was your age. You’ve always been satisfied to be with each other, but that can’t last. It was partly your mother’s notion; I remember her saying that our burden had passed into you. I never quite understood what she meant, but I suppose it must rather be the opposite of what WE had to bear.”

The twins listened with breathless attention while their father, suddenly stirred by the past, told them the story of his long betrothal.

“And now,” he exclaimed, in conclusion, “it may be putting wild ideas into your two heads, but I must say it! THAT was where I did wrong–wrong to her and to me,–in waiting! I had no right to spoil the best of our lives; I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her father’s house, taken her by the hand, and led her forth to be my wife. Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman truly, and she to love you, and there is no reason why God (I don’t say man) should put you asunder, do as I ought to have done, not as I did! And, maybe, this advice is the best legacy I can leave you.”

“But, father,” said David, speaking for both, “we have never thought of marrying.”

“Likely enough,” their father answered; “we hardly ever think of what surely comes. But to me, looking back, it’s plain. And this is the reason why I want you to make me a promise, and as solemn as if I was on my death-bed. Maybe I shall be, soon.”

Tears gathered in the eyes of the twins. “What is it, father?” they both said.

“Nothing at all to any other two boys, but I don’t know how YOU’ll take it. What if I was to ask you to live apart for a while?”

“Oh father!” both cried. They leaned together, cheek pressing cheek, and hand clasping hand, growing white and trembling. John Vincent, gazing into the fire, did not see their faces, or his purpose might have been shaken.

“I don’t say NOW,” he went on. “After a while, when–well, when I’m dead. And I only mean a beginning, to help you toward what HAS to be. Only a month; I don’t want to seem hard to you; but that’s little, in all conscience. Give me your word: say, `For mother’s sake!'”

There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan said, in low, faltering voices, “For mother’s sake, I promise.”

“Remember that you were only boys to her. She might have made all this seem easier, for women have reasons for things no man can answer. Mind, within a year after I’m gone!”

He rose and tottered out of the room.

The twins looked at each other: David said, “Must we?” and Jonathan, “How can we?” Then they both thought, “It may be a long while yet.” Here was a present comfort, and each seemed to hold it firmly in holding the hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by side.

The trial was nearer than they imagined. Their father died before the winter was over; the farm and other property was theirs, and they might have allowed life to solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for their promise to the dead. This must be fulfilled, and then–one thing was certain; they would never again separate.

“The sooner the better,” said David. “It shall be the visit to our uncle and cousins in Indiana. You will come with me as far as Harrisburg; it may be easier to part there than here. And our new neighbors, the Bradleys, will want your help for a day or two, after getting home.”