"They have their points," suggested Abner. "Besides, boys take after their mothers, they say." And Abner rose and gathered his letters together. Ann remained very thoughtful all that day. In the evening, when Abner for a moment laid down his pen for the purpose of relighting his pipe, Ann came to him, seating herself on the corner of the desk. "I suppose," she said, "that's why you never married mother?" Abner's mind at the moment was much occupied with the Panama Canal. "What mother?" he asked. "Whose mother?" "My mother," answered Ann. "I suppose men are like that." "What are you talking about?" said Abner, dismissing altogether the Panama Canal. "You loved my mother very much," explained Ann with cold deliberation. "She always made you think of Wordsworth's perfect woman." "Who told you all that?" demanded Abner. "You did." "I did?" "It was the day you took me away from Miss Carew's because she said she couldn't manage me," Ann informed him. "Good Lord! Why, that must be two years ago," mused Abner. "Three," Ann corrected him. "All but a few days." "I wish you'd use your memory for things you're wanted to remember," growled Abner. "You said you had never asked her to marry you," pursued Ann relentlessly; "you wouldn't tell me why. You said I shouldn't understand." "My fault," muttered Abner. "I forget you're a child. You ask all sorts of questions that never ought to enter your head, and I'm fool enough to answer you." One small tear that had made its escape unnoticed by her was stealing down her cheek. He wiped it away and took one of her small paws in both his hands. "I loved your mother very dearly," he said gravely. "I had loved her from a child. But no woman will ever understand the power that beauty has upon a man. You see we're built that way. It's Nature's lure. Later on, of course, I might have forgotten; but then it was too late. Can you forgive me?" "But you still love her," reasoned Ann through her tears, "or you wouldn't want him to come here." "She had such a hard time of it," pleaded Abner. "It made things easier to her, my giving her my word that I would always look after the boy. You'll help me?" "I'll try," said Ann. But there was not much promise in the tone. Nor did Matthew Pole himself, when he arrived, do much to help matters. He was so hopelessly English. At least, that was the way Ann put it. He was shy and sensitive. It is a trying combination. It made him appear stupid and conceited. A lonely childhood had rendered him unsociable, unadaptable. A dreamy, imaginative temperament imposed upon him long moods of silence: a liking for long solitary walks. For the first time Ann and Mrs. Travers were in agreement. "A sulky young dog," commented Mrs. Travers. "If I were your uncle I'd look out for a job for him in San Francisco." "You see," said Ann in excuse for him, "it's such a foggy country, England. It makes them like that."