“Caro—” I said, and stopped. We had lived in her and for her so many years. I could not suggest that she owed us anything. The tears came to my eyes, but I held them back. “Dear,” I went on, “I’ve never tried to force your confidence, and I can’t now. Something is wrong, I know—some trifle, probably, that a little honest frankness would set right. But I know when we are young we come to a place where we must manage our own affairs, no matter how we bungle them or how many hearts we break; it’s the way we all learn at times. But darling, remember that my love waits to help you, if you ever want its service. And, whatever you do, Caro, don’t do it in anger like a child. It is the mark of a woman to walk in love, and to serve love only, even where she must give the deepest hurt.” She sat looking across the hills, only her profile toward me, but I saw her lip quiver. She dropped her head on my shoulder and snuggled her face under my chin. “You’re the sweetest mammy! You know I love you—more than ever I did in my life. And I’m coming to see you so often you’ll think I’m living here. But I’m sure I ought to go. There’s the buggy now; Cousin Jane said she’d send it over. My trunk is all ready; she’ll send for that, too. I thought I’d rather you’d tell Daddy Jack and David good-bye for me. Won’t you let me take you back to the house first?” “No,” I said; “David will help me, and your Daddy Jack. It isn’t time yet.” She caught her breath a little, kissed me with a sorry effort at playfulness, and went towards the buggy. I watched it driving out the gate to the pike. Neither David nor the Peon came, and after awhile Josie came out to say that “Mr. John” had telephoned he would have to spend the night in the city. She wheeled me to the porch, and I was back in bed before David came in. I was thankful for once that the Peon was away. David went to his solitary dinner, and then sat by me in the twilight, stroking my hand. “What struck Caro to go off again?” he asked, in a tone he tried hard to make casual. “Josie says she told her she was off for a visit.” “She went to Cousin Jane’s—went to stay, I mean. She’ll change her mind in a few days, I suppose. She has been upset for a day or two.” “To Cousin Jane’s—to stay?” he repeated in bewilderment. “And left you here—like this?” he added in indignant unbelief. “Dear, something drove her. She’s unhappy about something—there’s some mistake: and the need to keep it to herself is on her. It makes me feel—oh, Davy, boy, I’ve always thought I was a real mother to you children; but I’m only the best substitute for a mother you’ve known. If I were truly Caro’s mother—if I had done all I thought I was doing—the child would have told me. You are both suffering for nothing—because I failed.” He bent his cheek to mine.