"Meanwhile," he said to Murray, with a sadness which the other detected, "it is the father, rather than the son, after all, who has the bitterest dose of medicine to take." "I ’m sorry, sir," was all Murray could say, wondering if his father meant the fact that his plan for taking Forrest into the business would have to be given up. He suggested this to Jane Bell, in the little garden one evening, down by the phlox-bed, where she had gone to pick a bunch of flowers for Olive, who sat upon the porch with Ross and Peter. Olive had at last learned the way over to Gay Street, and having found it, had discovered that the knowledge lent interest to a life she had felt to be very dull. "I suppose he feels badly about it," said Murray, holding the phlox Jane gave him while she picked a cluster of lilies to go with it. "Indeed, he must." "It is the thing he has looked forward to for years--ever since he realised he could n’t make a business man out of me." "Yes, and I suppose, even if your brother came back after two or three years, less head-strong than now, he might not be any more willing to settle down to that life." "No, I doubt if he would. It’s all up for father, and it’s a tremendous disappointment." "I am very, very sorry for him," said Jane, gravely, musing over her lilies. There was silence for a moment; then she looked up. "You don’t think," she ventured, her hazel eyes scanning his, "that anybody could possibly make it up to him?" "Anybody? Who?" "Who, indeed?" Jane was breathing a little quickly. Murray stared at her in mingled astonishment, questioning and dismay. Then he spoke, abruptly and roughly: "In the name of all absurdity, you can’t mean _me_?" Jane dropped her eyes, flushing deeply. She bit her lips. "It would be very, very hard, would n’t it?" Murray drew a deep, impatient breath. "_Hard!_" he exploded, and turned away. Then he wheeled back. "You’re not serious?" he said, hurriedly. "You can’t be serious in even suggesting such a thing. I--bookworm, cripple, weakling----" Jane raised her eyes once more. In the deepening twilight Murray felt as if they were searching his soul. "And yet," she said, slowly, and almost wistfully, "it would be such a magnificent thing to do. It would take hero stuff, I know--yet," she smiled, "I think--you--could----" Then she stopped short. "Oh, forgive me!" she cried, softly, under her breath. "What am I that I should suggest hero deeds to you? A girl who cries nearly every night of her life because she can’t go to college!" CHAPTER VIII MURRAY GIVES AN ANSWER