The few weeks that were left to them of the summer were very pleasant. They had made some acquaintances in the colony, and joined in the more informal summer festivities. Jerry painted and loafed, seemingly quite contented. Jane marvelled at him sometimes, remembering the restless spring days in town. The Brendons were off on a cruise. Althea was not mentioned between them. The Bryces motored out for lunch one fall day. They reported the Cricket immured in a summer camp for girls. "Our one idea is to keep her off of us," said Wally. "She's not a bad kid, if she'd had any training," Jerry remarked. "Thanks, Jerry, we'll discuss that with you ten years from now," retorted Mrs. Wally. Jerry blushed at that. He never thought of the baby as having anything to do with him--it was something belonging to Jane. September grew cold and a trifle dreary. "I'm glad we're going to town to-morrow. I hate the country when it's got the blues," said Jerry. "I'm so reluctant to leave that I haven't thought about the weather." "I suppose it isn't a very pleasant prospect for you," he said, uneasily, in the first reference he had made to the coming ordeal. "I wasn't thinking of that, either. I was just remembering the summer in this dear place. I've never been so happy anywhere." "Haven't you, Jane? I'm glad. Sometimes I feel as if I had gotten you into an awful scrape, in marrying me." "You didn't get me in, I walked in." "Eyes open, Jane? Did you know the kind of man I was?" "Yes." "You haven't regretted it?" "No." "Thank you." "And you, Jerry?" "I'm glad we did it, Jane." "In spite of everything?" "Yes. Now that I'm getting acquainted with you I realize what a crazy thing it was for me to suppose I knew you." "That was partly my fault." "I think we hit it off as well as most of them." "I suppose so. Is there anything that you very much want which I fail to give you, Jerry?" "I don't think of anything, Jane." She knew the minute she had put the question, how futile it was. She had impulsively sought an answer on one plane, and he was speaking from another. "I may die, Jerry. I would like to think I had made you comfortable." "Jane, of course you're not going to die, and you've made me more than comfortable," he cried, with feeling. The next day they left the house, in a burst of autumn warmth and glory. The asters and the fall leaves were flaunting their gay colours in the garden, and the vines on the walls, freshened by late rains, fluttered in the sun. "Oh, Jerry, I wish it were spring!" cried Jane, in her one protest at the crisis she was facing. He caught it in her tone, and felt the first conscious sympathy with her. He drew her hand through his arm, and led her to the gate to wait for the cab. "A month from to-day, Jane, maybe we'll be glad it is winter." "Yes, yes, of course, we must be," she said, getting herself in hand.