"Sleep!" said Pen. "I've got all the rest of my life to sleep in!" He was still clinging to her hand. "It's so hard to let you go," he murmured. "Could you ... Oh, I know I haven't any right to ask it ... in my position ..." Pen hated his humility. She stamped her foot. "Any right! What's your position got to do with it?" His head went up with a jerk. "Pen!" he cried. Pen was plain panic-stricken. "Good-night!" she said, jerking her hand free. "The sky is getting light behind you!" She all but ran down the road. Once she looked behind her. He was still standing there. If he had called her she would have had to go back, let the dawn break if it would. But he heavily shouldered his pack, and turned in the other direction. At the breakfast table next morning Pen suddenly interrupted her father's endless, querulous complaints by saying: "Well, how about me?" He stared. "Hey?" he said blankly. "Do you suppose I'm enjoying the present situation? Stared at, spied upon, my house overrun with riff-raff! It's intolerable!" "Of course! ... Of course!" he stammered. "That's just what's troubling me." "I want to go away until it blows over," said Pen. Pendleton looked scared. "But ... but would they allow you to?" "Pooh!" said Pen. "That threat of arrest was just a bluff." "Where would you go?" "Oh ... anywhere." "I haven't the money," he said plaintively. "I'd pay my own." That old look of suspicion flickered up in his eyes. "Where would you get it?" "Well ... I could sell my sheep." "Sell your sheep!" he echoed. "Why ... preposterous! Why the sheep are the best part of our capital!" "My capital," corrected Pen. "Certainly," he said stiffly. "But I'm your father I suppose. I have a right to prevent you doing anything so foolhardy. Just to gratify a momentary impulse. I forbid you to think of such a thing! Never speak of it again!" "Oh, all right," said Pen, dropping the matter so quickly that a more perspicacious man might have guessed she had not dropped it at all. As a matter of fact as soon as breakfast was over she took the _Sun_-paper to her room and looked up the quotations for sheep and lambs on the Baltimore market. Prices were low, but there was no help for it. She fell to studying ways and means. Later she was moving about the house setting things to rights and always planning, planning, when she heard a musical deep-toned ship's whistle from the river--the whistle of a stranger in those waters. She ran to the front windows and beheld a big yacht coming in from the bay. She was as slim and sheer as a pickerel with a piratical rake to her masts and funnel. The morning sun showed up her mahogany upper-works as red as blood, and dazzlingly picked out her polished brasses. A beauty! An anchor was let go with a mighty rattling of chain, and the yacht slowly came about in the stream.