"Well, you're not grown up yet," Abner consoled her. "And so long as you are feeling like that about it, I'm not likely to want you to marry him." "It would make you so happy," sobbed Ann. "Yes, but we've got to think of the boy, don't forget that," laughed Abner. "Perhaps he might object." "He would. I know he would," cried Ann with conviction. "He's no better than I am." "Have you been asking him to?" demanded Abner, springing up from his chair. "Not to marry me," explained Ann. "But I told him he must be an unnatural little beast not to try to like me when he knew how you loved me." "Helpful way of putting it," growled Abner. "And what did he say to that?" "Admitted it," flashed Ann indignantly. "Said he had tried." Abner succeeded in persuading her that the path of dignity and virtue lay in her dismissing the whole subject from her mind. He had made a mistake, so he told himself. Age may be attracted by contrast, but youth has no use for its opposite. He would send Matthew away. He could return for week-ends. Continually so close to one another, they saw only one another's specks and flaws; there is no beauty without perspective. Matthew wanted the corners rubbed off him, that was all. Mixing more with men, his priggishness would be laughed out of him. Otherwise he was quite a decent youngster, clean minded, high principled. Clever, too: he often said quite unexpected things. With approaching womanhood, changes were taking place in Ann. Seeing her every day one hardly noticed them; but there were times when, standing before him flushed from a walk or bending over him to kiss him before starting for some friendly dance, Abner would blink his eyes and be puzzled. The thin arms were growing round and firm; the sallow complexion warming into olive; the once patchy, mouse-coloured hair darkening into a rich harmony of brown. The eyes beneath her level brows, that had always been her charm, still reminded Abner of her mother; but there was more light in them, more danger. "I'll run down to Albany and talk to Jephson about him," decided Abner. "He can come home on Saturdays." The plot might have succeeded: one never can tell. But a New York blizzard put a stop to it. The cars broke down, and Abner, walking home in thin shoes from a meeting, caught a chill, which, being neglected, proved fatal. Abner was troubled as he lay upon his bed. The children were sitting very silent by the window. He sent Matthew out on a message, and then beckoned Ann to come to him. He loved the boy, too, but Ann was nearer to him. "You haven't thought any more," he whispered, "about--" "No," answered Ann. "You wished me not to." "You must never think," he said, "to show your love for my memory by doing anything that would not make you happy. If I am anywhere around," he continued with a smile, "it will be your good I shall be watching for, not my own way. You will remember that?"