Another week had soon gone by. Bruce still recovered rapidly, and the other sick children were up and about. Deborah, in the meantime, had barely been in the house at all. But late on Saturday evening Roger found her in her room. She was working. He came behind her. "What is it, dad?" "Busy, eh?" He hesitated, and laid his hand on her shoulder with a little affectionate pressure. "You've kept so busy lately," he said, "I haven't had time to see anything of you. How's your work going?" "Much better, thanks--now that the winter is over." He questioned her about her schools. And then after a brief pause, "Well, daughter," he said, "it has been a great fight, and I'm proud of you for it. And if I've got anything to say--" his hand was still on her shoulder, and he felt her tighten suddenly--"it isn't by way of criticism--please be sure of that ahead. In this damnable war my faith in men has been badly shaken up. Humanity seems to me still a child--a child who needs to go to school. God knows we need men and women like you--and I'm proud of all you've accomplished, I'd be the last man to hold you back. I only want to help you go on--by seeing to it that you are free--from anything which can hinder you." He stopped again for a moment. "To begin with," he said, "I understand you're not going to marry Allan Baird." She stirred slightly: "Did he tell you so?" "Yes--I asked him," Roger replied. "I had Allan here a few nights ago, and he told me you had decided to give up your happiness for the sake of all those children in that big family of yours. You felt you must keep yourself free for them. Very well, if that is your decision I propose to clear the way." She looked intently up at his face. "You're not free now," he continued. "We have Edith and her children here. And I'm growing old--that has got to be thought of--I don't want to leave them on your hands. So as soon as the baby is well enough, I'm going to move them up to the mountains--not only for the summer--they are to stay the whole year 'round. From this time on they're to make it their home." "Father! But they can't do that! Think of the winters!" Deborah cried. "It's already settled," he answered. "I've talked to Edith and she has agreed. She has always loved the farm, and it will be good for her children. In the meantime I've been talking to George. 'George,' I told him, 'I'm going to talk to you, man to man, about a man's job I want you to tackle.'" "The farm? But, dearie! He's only a boy!" "He's nearly seventeen," said Roger, "and a young moose for his age. And old Dave Royce will still be there. It's the work George has been dreaming about ever since he was a child. You should have seen how he was thrilled by the scheme. I told him we'd spend the summer together up there laying all our plans, investing our money carefully to make every dollar count." "What money?" Deborah sharply asked. But her father was talking steadily on: