The boy in him came to the front for an instant and looked out of his eyes, though he shrank from the blunt way the older man had of stating facts. His father eyed him keenly. "But you’re only a boy, Charles, and you’re not through college yet. How could you marry?" "I’m past twenty-one," boasted the boy, and vanished into the man. A graver look came out upon his face. "I could leave college, if it were necessary, or I could go on and finish. I could work part of the time and take care of her." The last words he breathed gently, reverently, like a benediction. The father stopped in the wooded path and grasped his son’s hand. "Boy, you’ve got good stuff in you! I’m proud of you," he said, lifting his head triumphantly. "If only your brother had been like that!" Then he bowed his head in bitter thought. But the young man’s thoughts were not on Harrington now. He grasped his father’s hand, and waited impatiently for further words from him. "Well, Father?" The old man lifted his head. "But, Boy, you do not know her. You have seen her only once. You can’t spoil your own life that way." A flood of color went over the younger face, and into his eyes came a depth of earnestness that showed his father that the man had awakened in his son. He was no longer a boy. "Father, I do not need to know her. I love her already. I have loved her ever since I saw her. That was why I did not want to come to the wedding. I felt that I could not bear it." The kindly older gaze searched the fine young face tenderly, but the lover’s eyes looked back at him and wavered not. "Is it so, Son?"—the words were grave. "Then God pity you—and bless you," he added, with an upward look. "I am afraid there is no easy way ahead of you. Yet I am proud to call you my son." After this they walked on silently through the woods, over a pathway of flecked gold, where the sunlight sifted through the leafy branches. No sound came to interrupt the silence beyond the whisking of a squirrel or the flirt of a bird’s wings in the branches. The dinner-bell pealed forth from the inn, and they turned quietly to retrace their steps. They were almost in sight of the house before either spoke. Then the father said: "Son, she does not know you. Have you any idea how she will take all this?" "None at all, Father." It was spoken humbly. "What is your idea? Have you made any plans?" "Not yet—only, that I shall tell her at once, if I may, and let her decide. If she is willing, the wedding may go on as planned." A light came into the older man’s face, though he looked troubled. "Well said, Charles! Perhaps you may succeed. But I fear, I fear. Nevertheless, your noble action helps me to hold up my head and look her father in the eye. If I have one son who is a scoundrel, at least I have one who is not, and who is willing to face his brother’s obligations."