As a matter of fact Howe for the last year or two had been more or less worried about Wilmer’s future. Not financially, for he had means enough to assure her of independence in that direction. But he did not believe in that kind of independence for a woman. Marriage to him was the wholesome and natural estate of womanhood. He had been conscious of a growing fear that Wilmer was deliberately sacrificing herself to him in this matter. He had never discussed it with her. It was a difficult and delicate question to bring up. But he had thought a good deal about it and could account for her apparent aversion to men in no other way. In spite of good health he was growing old and in his old age felt in his life the lack of those tiny baby fingers which so assist down the incline however gentle the slope. This craving for grandchildren is a sort of second birth. It is the logical continuation of growth. It makes for completion. He could trust Wilmer to be sound in her choice--true to her heart--if only she would choose. He did not propose either to assist her or to advise. That would be an impertinence. With this newer generation it was possible for a father to be impertinent towards his daughter. He used to resent that where now he only smiled at it. He would not assist her directly, but whenever it was possible to retire gracefully from the field where these two were trying each other out, he welcomed the opportunity--even when he knew it annoyed Wilmer. As now, for example. It was only nine o’clock when he rose upon the slightest of pretexts, to go to his room. “No one is quarreling,” protested Wilmer. “Call it a disagreement, then,” answered Howe. “If you’ll stay I’ll read to you.” Wilmer looked to Allston for support. She received little. “No,” declared Howe, “I’m really ready for bed.” With that he made his sturdy way across the room and went upstairs, Wilmer following him with a candle. When she returned, Allston was over by the window again staring out into the night. He came back to the fire as soon as he heard her steps. “I feel,” he said, “exactly as though I heard some one calling--but so far off that I can’t identify either the voice or the words. Queer, isn’t it?” “The imagination plays strange tricks sometimes.” “You think that’s all it amounts to?” “Certainly. What else?” “I don’t know. I’m always getting back to that fool phrase; I don’t know.” “We ought to know--always,” she said. “I suppose so, but do we?” “I--” The phrase was on her own lips but she checked herself. “Go ahead; finish it,” he insisted with a note of triumph. “I refuse to be so stupid,” she answered, evidently nettled. “We may as well be honest with ourselves.” “As long as we remain sensible,” she finished for him. “Sensible? I wonder what we mean when we say that?” “I mean governed by intelligence,” she replied instantly. “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s a good definition. Only--it does leave out a whole lot.”