"It's hard; it's unkind," Phil whispered. The fact that her mother had planned flight so long ahead did not mitigate the hurt of it. Nothing, it seemed, could ever be right in this world! And she had just effected all the difficult readjustments made necessary by her mother's return! She had given herself so unreservedly to this most wonderful of women! Lois was touched by her show of feeling. "I'm sorry," she said, stroking Phil's brown head. "I have had thoughts of taking you with me. That would be easy enough--" she paused uncertainly, as the clasp of Phil's hands tightened. "But, Phil, I have no right to do that. It wouldn't be for your happiness in the end; I know that; I'm sure of that." "Oh, if you only would! I'll be very good--a lot nicer than you think I am if you will take me." "No!" said Lois sharply, but with a slight quaver in her voice that caused hope to stir in Phil's breast. "You hadn't any right to come back and make me love you and then run away again! It isn't kind; it isn't just!" "You wouldn't love me much longer if I stayed! You wouldn't love me very long if I carried you off. You've seen the best of me: I've shown you my best box of tricks. I don't wear well, Phil; that's the trouble with me." She rose abruptly and drew Phil to her feet, with an effort at gayety. "As it is we really love each other a lot, and it would be hazardous for me to stay longer. When I saw the first blossoms in the cherry tree, I knew it was time to go. I used to feel that way when I was a child--as though I just couldn't bear to stay any longer. I remember the days and hours when I used to fight it, away back there when I was a school girl. There must be gypsy blood in me. I can go on being just as you have seen me--lazy and comfortable for a long time, and then the thing becomes intolerable. It's the cause of all my troubles, one of the wobbles in my wobbly character. But now that I know what's the matter--that it isn't just malaria--and that the curse or whatever it is will pass in time, I suppose it isn't a weakness any longer, because I know just what to do for it. How's that, Phil, for philosophy!" "Oh, you're so dear, so wonderfully dear!" cried Phil, touching her mother's cheeks lightly with her hands: "and we have had such good times; and I thought we should go on forever, just chumming; and you have stirred me all up about doing things, working--how am I ever to go on trying without you?" "Nothing could keep you from going on and doing things; you will do great things. It's in you. I think maybe it's the wildness in me that has taken this turn in you. You have more brains in a little minute than I ever had: you are amazingly clever and wise. I'm glad it was left for me to discover it; that's one credit I've got on the Good Book."