They had reached the gate by this time, and Rex, who was carrying the hat-box he had taken from Mrs. Parks, offered his disengaged hand to Irene to help her into the buggy, while Sam held the impatient Beauty. Irene knew he must not go with her to that low-roofed house in the factory village among the hills. It would be madness to suffer it, and she exclaimed, “No, no! I shall not allow it. He has malignant diphtheria. It is dangerous. I can take the journey alone. I would not let Rena go, and certainly not you, but I thank you for your kind offer. Good-by.” She smiled at him through her tears, which made her seem more womanly than she ever had before. “But I really ought to go. I am not afraid,” Rex said, while she answered, again: “No, you must not,” and sprang into the buggy, followed by Rena, the movements of both accelerated by Sam’s imperative “You must hurry, or lose the train.” If there had been room for him in the buggy Rex would have gone to the station. But there was not, and while he was still protesting Black Beauty dashed from the gate and soon disappeared from view, while Rex stood looking after him, surprised and bewildered and relieved, he did not know why. “Come in, Mr. Travers,” Mrs. Parks said to him. “Come and have a glass of root beer. I’ve got some fresh brewed yesterday. I see you are all upset, and so am I with the suddenness of it. You could knock me down with a straw. I didn’t s’pose she had a brother. Did you? And I have not had time to ask Miss Rena.” She looked at him for some explanation, but he had none to give. He was as much mystified as she, and declining the beer he walked away, thinking to himself: “I supposed she was an orphan, living with her aunt,” then it occurred to him that she might be an orphan and still have a brother, and he at once conjured up the image of a very tall and fair-haired young man as Irene’s brother. He knew he must be fair-haired, Irene was so fair, and he must be tall, because she was so tall. And he saw her in fancy bending over him with tears in her eyes and on her long lashes, just as there had been when she said to him: “My brother is dying.” She had never seemed so attractive, and he found himself pitying her greatly and wishing he had insisted upon going with her, while there crept into his mind a thought that he would like to see her brother and her home before he committed himself. He was by nature and training an aristocrat, and the woman to whom he gave his name must not be below him in position. Nor did he believe that Irene was below him, but if the chance offered he would like to be sure, though it did not matter much what her brother or surroundings were. She was to be his wife. Sandy McPherson had settled that, and still he was conscious of being glad that the plunge, as he called it, had not been made, and he had yet a little time of probation left. CHAPTER XVI THE LETTER