Hobart followed out his own line of thought, and it presently led him back to the original proposition. “You will ‘gang yer ain gate,’ as you usually do, I suppose; but, as I remarked a minute ago, the time isn’t ripe. I have seen something of the family in the last few days--with my eyes open--and I can tell you pretty nearly how you stand. Dorothy would go to the stake for you, the judge would divide his ultimate dollar with you, Isabel worships you from afar, William the Curst swears by you, and Mrs. Langford--well, she doesn’t say much before me, as a matter of course, but it is as plain as the nose on your face that she has small use for you in spite of everything.” “That is no more or less than I expected. None the less, I am going to see her--to-night.” “Amen. I like your pluck, even if it is a bit like the zeal not according to knowledge that we read about. I shall be there--under the same ridgepole, at least. Is there anything I can do to help out?” “Nothing; unless you will be charitable enough to stand by to pick up the pieces after she has demolished me. Shall we adjourn?--if you are through. I have some writing to do, likewise a bit of provisional packing.” CHAPTER XXXVIII IN WHICH DARTS ARE COUNTED AS STUBBLE IN the course of a somewhat diversified experience Brant had been constrained to fight his way through a few measurably perilous passages, and in such crises those who liked him least were fain to concede his courage. None the less, when the day of liberation darkened to its evening he went leaden-footed to the interview with Dorothy’s mother. Now Hobart, in the goodness of his heart, had caused it to be whispered about that Brant would probably make his farewell call that evening, and for this reason it was Dorothy, and no hireling, who answered the bell. Whatever may be said of Brant (and his most loyal apologist is fain to admit that his shortcomings were many and variegated), he was no laggard in love; and when he made sure of the identity of his unexpected welcomer, Dorothy had no cause to doubt the warmth of his passion. Nevertheless, she blushed and struggled a little--as what modest young woman, however affectionate, would not in a well-lighted reception hall which was a thoroughfare for the entire household? And so, mutely protesting, she drew him quickly into the library. “Only a moment with you, my love,” he said tenderly; “just long enough to hear you say it again. Are you quite sure you love me?” She hid her face on his arm--she was not tall enough to reach his shoulder. “I--I’d be ashamed to tell you how long I have been sure of it,” she confessed with sweet _naïveté_. Whereat he kissed the parting of her hair. “Thank you for that word, my darling. It would hold a worse man than I ever dared to be true to his purpose. Now there is but one thing more: we must have your mother’s consent and approval. Will you go and send her to me?” But Dorothy hesitated, as well she might.