“Why not?” asked the doctor, his eyes on the mist of rain that seemed to move before them like the pillar of cloud before the Israelites. “He’s moody,” she said, “he’s almost sad at times and--and he spent an hour in the Shut Room--” She paused and looked questioningly at the old man beside her, but he made no comment. In the pause they heard the slush of Henk’s hoofs in the muddy road. “I wish he wouldn’t,” Diana continued; “it’s beautiful--his devotion to my mother’s memory, but I--I’m jealous of that Shut Room, it makes him so unhappy. Couldn’t I break it up by taking him away?” The doctor shook his head. “Better not, Diana,” he cautioned her, “better not. You can’t uproot an old tree. Let him fight his battle out alone.” “I can’t bear that he should be alone,” she protested tenderly. “I can’t bear to be shut out even from his griefs. Pa and I are all in all to each other. Why does he never speak of mother? Is it his sorrow?” Dr. Cheyney nodded, pursing his lips. Henk jogged on. “It’s a long time,” said Diana, “I was only three years old.” “Let it be, my girl,” the old man counseled; “we can’t enter the upper chamber of the soul, you know. David’s got to fight it out. Sometimes”--the doctor let the reins go so slack that old Henk walked--“sometimes grief is like a raw cut, Diana, and we can’t put in a few stitches either; got to leave that to Providence.” “He isn’t well,” Diana insisted. “He’d be no better for my meddling,” Dr. Cheyney retorted, unmoved. “I wanted him to go East with me,” she continued, “to go to New York.” Dr. Cheyney glanced up quickly. “And he wouldn’t?” Diana shook her head. “Don’t you ask it,” cautioned the old man. “It’s the time of year when your father’s full of notions; let him be.” “The time of year”--Diana met the doctor’s kindly eyes--“when mother died?” William Cheyney turned red. The girl, looking at him, saw the dull red stealing up to the old man’s white hair and wondered. “Yes,” he said. “Do I look like her?” Diana asked, after a moment of perplexed thought. “No!” said Dr. Cheyney shortly. Old Henk had climbed the last hill,--the one that always seems to meet the sky until you have climbed it,--and there, below it, unfolded the wide valley with the brown of new-plowed fields and the long strips of lovely foliage. The mist of the rain was molten gold now, and a rainbow spanned the sky. “I wish I did!” Diana sighed regretfully. “You’re the handsomest woman in the State,” the old doctor retorted tartly. “What more do you want?” “The kingdoms of earth,” replied Diana, and laughed softly. Dr. Cheyney disentangled the rein again from old Henk’s tail, and they turned the corner. “Diana,” he said abruptly, “did you happen to ask Caleb Trench to call?” “I?” Diana flushed crimson. “No,” she said reluctantly, “I didn’t.” Dr. Cheyney shook with silent laughter. “That’s the way you treat the good Samaritan,” he said. “I’d rather be the Levite, Di.”