"Now, I’ll give you an imitation of a chipmunk," cried Indiana, in high spirits, jumping up on a lounge, and imitating to perfection a chipmunk sitting on its haunches and nibbling a nut. Lord Stafford applauded, while Thurston watched the door, his mind divided between admiration for his little wife’s clever imitation, and fear that his mother might enter during the performance. "Do you remember the night we all went on a moonlight picnic to the Falls—and Glen was so jealous—poor Glen!—and we sang ’On the Banks of the Wabash’?— ’Oh, the moonlight’s fair to-night along the Wabash, From the field there comes the breath of new-mown hay, Through the sycamores the candle-lights are gleaming, On the banks of the Wabash, far away.’" Her voice quivered and she sank upon the ground, sobbing like a child, with her head against the table. Thurston made one quick step toward her and gathered her up in his arms. "My darling, don’t cry! You break my heart." He pressed her to his breast, smoothing her hair mechanically. A hopeless expression had settled in his eyes. Lord Stafford looked at them miserably, then considered the best thing to do, under the circumstances, was to make his escape in the quietest manner possible. Thurston sank into a chair, holding his wife closely to his heart. "I know you’re homesick—unhappy," he whispered. "I feel it, and I’m helpless against it. What can I do?" "Nothing of the kind," she said, lifting her head suddenly. "There—I frightened Uncle Nelson away!" She slipped from his arms to the floor. "I’m not homesick. I mean—not all the time." She gave a piteous little gulp. "That song upset me, and I had a terrible longing just to get a look at dad and mother and Grandma Chazy, and then pack them all home again." Thurston heaved a sigh from his heart. "I wish you wouldn’t take me so seriously, Thurston," she continued, in an aggrieved voice. "Don’t watch every quiver of my eyes, and think it’s a tragedy. Discipline’s a very good thing for me—I like it. But I wish you wouldn’t believe every word I say. It’s aggravating enough when your mother does it." "I’ll try not to. But I want to follow your thoughts—I want to be one with my wife." He drew her to him, gazing with yearning tenderness into her eyes. "It’s difficult to—to adjust my slow emotions to your rapidly changing ones. You force my sympathy—and repel it—in a breath. Your moods change with the minutes. But all that wouldn’t matter if I were sure you were learning to love me—to give only a little, in return for my deep affection. That would set my heart at rest and smooth away all difficulties." He looked beseechingly into her eyes. But she silently evaded his glance. Her face had grown suddenly very serious. "Indiana!" "I—I was thinking—perhaps it was wrong to marry you—but I did not love anybody else—and I will try." "Indiana, if you knew how your words stab me. You have a terrible capacity for torturing."