CHAPTER XIII.
A QUESTION OF DUTY.
"The romance we love best is that which we write in our own heart."
"The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away."
"The gods sell us all good things for labor."
Happiness, like sunshine, cannot be hid. As Jonathan went through his mill that day he carried the atmosphere with him. His face had the old open, straightforward look, his manner that auspicious, kindly imperativeness which so well became him. From frame to frame some intelligence passed. In a moment, in the twinkling of eyes, the thought was expressed and communicated, and unconsciously there was a quickening of work in sympathy with the mood. Jonathan did not say a word, but he wished them to feel that a better time had come, and they did feel it, and so subtle and quick are such flashes of intelligent sympathy, that the
