“I know, but we both have others besides ourselves to consider. I have my uncles. They have done everything for me. And you have your father. Does he know--about me--about what you have just said to me?” And now Crawford hesitated. Not long, but long enough for Mary to know what the answer would be before it was spoken. “He doesn't know,” she said. “I thought not. Do you think he will approve?” “I hope he will. There is every reason why he should and absolutely none why he shouldn't. Of course he'll approve; he's sensible.” “Yes, but he may have plans of his own for you, and your marrying an Eastern girl may not be one of them. You have often told me how prejudiced he is against the East and Eastern people. He may disapprove strongly.” Crawford squared his shoulders. There was no hesitation or doubt in his next speech. “If he does it will make no difference,” he declared. “I care a whole lot for Dad and I'd do anything on earth for him--anything but the one thing, that is: I won't give you up--provided you care for me--for him or for anyone else. That's final.” He certainly looked as if it were. But Mary only shook her head. In the new thoughts and new imaginings which had come to her during the past winter there had been a vague foreshadowing of a possible situation somewhat like this. She had her answer ready. “Oh, no, it isn't,” she said. “You are his son, his only child, Crawford. He cares so much for you. You have often told me that, and--and I know he must. And you and he have been so happy together. Do you think I would be the cause of breaking that relationship?” He waved the question aside and asked one of his own. “Do you love me, Mary?” he asked. “You mustn't ask me, Crawford. Write your father. Tell him everything. Will you?” “Yes, I will. I should have done it, anyway. If I go home, and I suppose I must, I shall tell him; it will be better than writing. But I want your answer before I go. Won't you give it to me?” He looked very handsome and very manly, as he stood there pleading. But Mary had made up her mind. “I can't, Crawford,” she said. “Perhaps I don't know. I do know that it would not be right for me to say what you want me to say--now. Go home to your father; he needs you. Tell him everything and then--write me.” He looked at her, a long, long look. Then he nodded slowly. “All right,” he said; “I will. I will tell him that I mean to marry you. If he says yes--as he will, I'm sure--then I'll write you that. If he says no, I'll write you that. But in either case, Mary Lathrop, I shall marry you just the same. Your own no will be the only thing that can prevent it. And now may I come and see you tomorrow evening?” “Not tomorrow, Crawford. When will you start for home?” “Saturday, I think. May I come the day after tomorrow? Just to say good-by, you know.” Mary was troubled. She could not deny him and yet she was certain it would be better for them both if he did not come.