"I felt sorry for him, child, not that he had been so disappointed but because he had not the strength to rally from it. I don't believe God made him that way; I think he sacrificed too much of himself to his genius. This world we live in demands so much of us--such _different_ things, that, if we are to meet everything squarely, we cannot develop one side of our minds and let the other side go. I am telling you all this, Jerry, that you may understand how I have felt--about you. The months after your father died were sort of a blank to me--I lived on here because I had nowhere else to go. Gradually my gratitude to John Travis turned to real affection--not like what I had given your father, but something quite as deep. And the years I have lived with him here have been very happy--as though my poor little ship had found the still waters of an inland stream after having been tossed on a stormy sea. And I've tried to make myself think that in these still waters I could keep _you_ always, that you would grow up here and--perhaps--marry someone----" she laughed. "Mothers always dream way ahead, darling. But as you grew older I could see that that was not going to be easy. You've so quickly outgrown everything I can give you--or that anyone--here--can; you have grown so curious, your mind is always reaching out. What is here, what is there, what is this, where is that--questions like these always on your tongue! And you _are_ like your father--very." Jerry shivered the least little bit, perhaps from the night air, warm as it was, perhaps from the thought that she was like poor, poor Craig Winton, who did not seem at all like a real father. In a moment her mother had wrapped her in the soft shawl she carried. Something in the loving touch of her hands broke the spell of unreality that had held Jerry. "I don't understand, mamsey," she whispered, cuddling close, "if you felt like--_that_--and worried, why did you let me go away?"