“Poor Hildegarde!” burst from his lips, and the implication, “to have a mother like you,” would have pierced many a maternal breast. But it glanced off Mrs. Mar’s armor and fell pointless. “Hildegarde Mar”—with an air of defending her daughter from Cheviot’s low opinion of her—“is a person of considerable dignity of character.” “Do you think it necessary to tell me that?” “Singularly enough, yes. And to add that I who know her best, have never yet seen her show any sign of not being able to take proper care of herself.” “Under ordinary conditions. But, as I told the boys—” “A woman who can’t take care of herself under conditions out of the ordinary, can’t take care of herself at all.” Again Cheviot opened his lips, but Mrs. Mar, grasping the arms of her rocking-chair, indoctrinated the purblind man. “The truth is, that a girl in good health, who hasn’t been kept in cotton, and who hasn’t been seared by men’s going on as you’re doing, is far abler to cope with life than—than—” She pulled herself up an instant, seeming to feel that after all man is hardly worthy to know the whole truth upon these high themes. But she thought extremely well of Cheviot, or she would never have permitted him to speak to her as he had done. And he loved Hildegarde. “The truth is,” she went on, “Hildegarde is quite right about this. There’s no reason why she _shouldn’t_ go half as strong as the reason why she should.” “The reason! You think it’s on account of Mr. Mar. It isn’t. Bella will tell you Hildegarde _wants_ to go on this degrading journey. She said everybody had traveled about and seen the world but her. She had never been farther than Seattle to see Madeleine Somebody.” “That’s true.” “You see! Hildegarde is full of curiosity about—things.” “Why not?” “Oh, why indeed! But the fact opened my eyes to how much—how little Mr. Mar’s welfare has to do with her crazy scheme.” “It hasn’t opened your eyes very wide, Louis.” Mrs. Mar shook her head with the air of one looking back over a long road painfully traversed. “Nobody shrinks more from a fuss and a falling-out than Hildegarde. This winter, without Bella, and without you, and without—It hasn’t been easy for Hildegarde. She would have given in about Nome long ago, but for—” Mrs. Mar suddenly leaned forward again, and speaking hurriedly, “Somehow or other Hildegarde _knows_. I believe she’s known all along.” “Knows what?” “What her father meant to do.” “About not coming home?” “Yes.” “She knows that because I told her.” “You knew it!” “Yes.” “And yet”—she gripped the arms of the rocking-chair, and her eyes shone—“you come here to get me to prevent the only step being taken—” “No! Only to protest against Hildegarde’s taking it. Good heavens!”—he was losing his self-control—“Hildegarde is—” “Well and strong, and no such fool as you seem to think.” He set his square jaw. “A little young for such a—” “Twenty-six.” “You forget or don’t know she’s also—attractive.”