The day Mrs. Mar and Hildegarde went off to spend a week down at the ranch with the Waynes, the two came into the dining-room to say good-by to Mr. Mar. It was to be “a house-party,” and Cheviot and Mr. Mar had been asked, too. Cheviot had accepted—“from Saturday night till Monday morning”—but Mar had declined to go for any length of time whatever. “A body would think he had affairs too important to leave! Well, good-by, Nathaniel. Don’t let hot cinders fall on the new hearth-rug. Take care of yourself, and I _hope_ you’ll have some news for me when I come home.” Upon their return the following week, he was found sitting in exactly the same place, in the precise attitude, and one might almost think with the same old book on his knee open at the self-same page. “Upon my soul!” ejaculated Mrs. Mar, stopping short on the threshold, while Hildegarde went forward to kiss her father. “No need to ask if you’ve found anything to do! You haven’t even remembered to put on a little coal.” She fell upon the poker and punished the flagging fire. “Have you been sitting there like that ever since I went away?” Mar drew himself out from Hildegarde’s embrace, took firm hold on his walking-stick and rose to his feet. He looked huge, as he towered above the two women, and rather wonderful, as both of them had often thought of late. Even the flippant Bella had said, “He’s more and more like Moses and the Prophets.” “As to sitting here”—he looked down sternly on his wife—“you may as well understand, Harriet, that this is the house I propose to sit in till I go out lying down. Only not in this room. I agree with you as to the unfitness of that.” He limped over to the kitchen door, opened it, and said, “John, will you light a fire in the young gentlemen’s bedroom.” Mrs. Mar stared a moment, and then went up-stairs to take off her things. It was no secret between her and Hildegarde that “after all” they stood a little in awe of the head of the house. The girl, however, knowing herself a privileged character, attempted to smooth things over with a little jest. She linked her arm in his, and told how her mother, on the way down in the train, had produced the book rest and a minute pencil from her traveling-bag, had fastened the rest on the back of the seat in front of her, to the surprise and inconvenience of the occupants, had set up the French biography, put on her spectacles, got out her crochet and read her “Lucien Pérey” and crocheted for dear life (or for the Hindus rather) every minute of the time that she was being rushed along by the express to Fern Lea; “and Louis Cheviot leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘Your mother’s losing time with her feet.’” But Mar’s faint smile was pretty grim. “Your mother has all the virtues, my dear, but she’s a woman of an implacable industry.”