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“It is less than death,” Jonathan answered, “and why should it seem to be more? We must think of father and mother, and all those twelve years; now I know what the burden was.”

“And we have never really borne any part of it! Father must have been right in forcing us to promise.”

Every day the discussion was resumed, and always with the same termination. Familiarity with the inevitable step gave them increase of courage; yet, when the moment had come and gone, when, speeding on opposite trains, the hills and valleys multiplied between them with terrible velocity, a pang like death cut to the heart of each, and the divided life became a chill, oppressive dream.

During the separation no letters passed between them. When the neighbors asked Jonathan for news of his brother, he always replied, “He is well,” and avoided further speech with such evidence of pain that they spared him. An hour before the month drew to an end, he walked forth alone, taking the road to the nearest railway station. A stranger who passed him at the entrance of a thick wood, three miles from home, was thunderstruck on meeting the same person shortly after, entering the wood from the other side; but the farmers in the near fields saw two figures issuing from the shade, hand in hand.

Each knew the other’s month, before they slept, and the last thing Jonathan said, with his head on David’s shoulder, was, “You must know our neighbors, the Bradleys, and especially Ruth.” In the morning, as they dressed, taking each other’s garments at random, as of old, Jonathan again said, “I have never seen a girl that I like so well as Ruth Bradley. Do you remember what father said about loving and marrying? It comes into my mind whenever I see Ruth; but she has no sister.”

“But we need not both marry,” David replied, “that might part us, and this will not. It is for always now.”

“For always, David.”

Two or three days later Jonathan said, as he started on an errand to the village: “I shall stop at the Bradleys this evening, so you must walk across and meet me there.”

When David approached the house, a slender, girlish figure, with her back towards him, was stooping over a bush of great crimson roses, cautiously clipping a blossom here and there. At the click of the gate-latch she started and turned towards him. Her light gingham bonnet, falling back, disclosed a long oval face, fair and delicate, sweet brown eyes, and brown hair laid smoothly over the temples. A soft flush rose suddenly to her cheeks, and he felt that his own were burning.

“Oh Jonathan!” she exclaimed, transferring the roses to her left hand, and extending her right, as she came forward.

He was too accustomed to the name to recognize her mistake at once, and the word “Ruth!” came naturally to his lips.

“I should know your brother David has come,” she then said; “even if I had not heard so. You look so bright. How glad I am!”

“Is he not here?” David asked.

“No; but there he is now, surely!” She turned towards the lane, where Jonathan was dismounting. “Why, it is yourself over again, Jonathan!”

As they approached, a glance passed between the twins, and a secret transfer of the riding-whip to David set their identity right with Ruth, whose manner toward the latter innocently became shy with all its friendliness, while her frank, familiar speech was given to Jonathan, as was fitting. But David also took the latter to himself, and when they left, Ruth had apparently forgotten that there was any difference in the length of their acquaintance.

On their way homewards David said: “Father was right. We must marry, like others, and Ruth is the wife for us,–I mean for you, Jonathan. Yes, we must learn to say MINE and YOURS, after all, when we speak of her.”