"Very well, just as you say. I can’t blame you, even if you are over-anxious. Give her my love and a kiss." She paused at the door, looking thoughtfully in his face. "We must love her very much, Thurston. And if there are any faults, we must deal gently with them, because—she is very young, and from what I saw of her people, she could have had no bringing up whatever." It seemed strange to hear his mother pleading for Indiana just at that moment. "Good-night, mother." She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. He threw himself in a chair, after she left the room, feeling deeply depressed. "If there are any faults, we must deal gently with them." His mother’s words always carried their own weight. Her unconscious intercession had touched his heart. He was ready to do everything, to make every extenuation, but he felt a dull premonition that Indiana would ask for none. Neither would she care. This was the worst. His hidden wound throbbed painfully. Jennings crept into the room. When he saw Thurston, sitting with his head bowed upon his hands, his face became an image of distress. He looked at the clock, then back again to the hopeless figure in the chair. Thurston raised his head suddenly. "What are you prowling about for, Jennings?" "I—I just looked in to see after that danged fire," said Jennings, in confusion, tottering to the fire and poking the logs. Thurston smiled. "There’s no sign of it going out, Jennings. Find a more plausible excuse." "Won’t you have a cold bite, sir?" asked Jennings, piteously. "You never touched the dinner." Thurston shook his head, opening a book. "A glass of wine, sir?" "Nothing, Jennings. Don’t bother, there’s a good fellow—and don’t come crawling in and out continually. I can’t read; it disturbs me." "Very well, sir," in a heart-broken voice. He went to the door, then tottered back again. "Another log on, sir, if you’re not going to bed? But perhaps you are going to bed?" "No, I shall sit up and read." The page before him was a blur. It lacked but a few minutes of twelve. If she would only come, no matter how—whether stormy, sulking or weeping—if she would only come. Even at the very last moment, to show him that she had, at least, some compunction—that she realized, in even a slight measure, what was owing him!