On this morning it was not only her interest in what was going on in Pennsylvania that sent her every now and again to seek her father’s society. Of equal force was her desire to escape from the tormenting questions that filled her mind as to what Jeff was doing, whether Charlotte was with him, and whether or not he was wishing she were there. And so, between her political zeal and her love, she passed a restless, fruitless morning. Her mother noted her frequent visits to her father’s office and, coupling with these the fact that she had all the morning ignored Delavan’s presence in the house, made instant inference. “It’s Amos’s influence over her,” she told herself, resentment rising bitter in her heart. “He’s urging her against it and spoiling my dear girl’s life, just for the sake of his own whims! It’s most selfish of him--and wicked. But I’ll see what I can do!” Knocking at Rhoda’s bedroom door after dinner she found her daughter sitting at the eastern window, hands idly folded in her lap, and eyes upon the wooded hills, whose autumn colors glowed softly through the gray, dripping mist. It was so unusual to see her doing absolutely nothing that Mrs. Ware stared at her in blank surprise. “Why, Rhoda, you look lonely sitting here all by yourself,” she said briskly. “Why don’t you go in and stay with Jeff for a while?” “I don’t know--I guess I don’t feel like it,” Rhoda responded, a forlorn note in her voice. “Jeff has been asking for you, dear. In fact, he’s fretting himself into a fever because you haven’t even looked into the room all this morning. And you were there only a little while yesterday--” “Twice, yesterday, mother.” “But such a little while each time. It isn’t kind to leave the poor boy alone all day, on such a dreary day as this.” “But Charlotte--” “No, I want Charlotte to help me to-day. It’s time she was learning to do more things about the house. Put on your pink frock, honey, you look so pretty in that, and go in and cheer Jeff up for a while.” Rhoda did not answer, but looked out at the wet earth and the drizzling rain. Through her soul there surged such a forceful longing to follow her mother’s advice that for a moment it seemed to arrest her powers of both action and speech. “Don’t sit here and mope any longer,” her mother went on with tender cheerfulness, “and don’t be so unkind to poor, sick Jeff. Come on, honey, I’ll help you dress.” And opening the wardrobe she took out the pink gown. Its wide skirt was covered with tiny flounces and when it was adjusted over a ruffled petticoat and her largest hoopskirt, her slender waist and her head and shoulders rose out of its spreading folds as if they were emerging from a huge, many-petaled rose. Jeff Delavan’s face brightened as she floated into the room. He was dressed, for the first time since his accident, and sitting by the window.