“It's Little Ann Hutchinson's, by gee!” said Tembarom, with feeling. “Listen here, Mr. Tem--Temple Barholm,” she went on, as nearly disturbed as he had ever seen her outwardly. “It's a wonderful thing that's happened to you. It's like a novel. That splendid place, that splendid name! It seems so queer to think I should ever have talked to a Mr. Temple Barholm as I've talked to you.” He leaned forward a little as though something drew him. “But”--there was unsteady appeal in his voice--“you have liked me, haven't you, Little Ann?” Her own voice seemed to drop into an extra quietness that made it remote. She looked down at her hands on her lap. “Yes, I have liked you. I have told Father I liked you,” she answered. He got up, and made an impetuous rush at his goal. “Then--say, I'm going in there to wake up Mr. Hutchinson and ask him not to sail to-morrow morning.” “You'd better not wake him up,” she answered, smiling; but he saw that her face changed and flushed. “It's not a good time to ask Father anything when he's just been waked up. And we HAVE to go. The express is coming at eight.” “Send it away again; tell 'em you're not going. Tell 'em any old thing. Little Ann, what's the matter with you? Something's the matter. Have I made a break?” He had felt the remoteness in her even before he had heard it in her dropped voice. It had been vaguely there even when he sat down on the trunk. Actually there was a touch of reserve about her, as though she was keeping her little place with the self-respecting propriety of a girl speaking to a man not of her own world. “I dare say I've done some fool thing without knowing it. I don't know where I'm at, anyhow,” he said woefully. “Don't look at me like that, Mr. Temple Barholm,” she said--“as if I was unkind. I--I'm NOT.” “But you're different,” he implored. “I saw it the minute I came up. I ran up-stairs just crazy to talk to you,--yes, crazy to talk to you--and you--well, you were different. Why are you, if you're not mad?” Then she rose and stood holding one of her neatly rolled packages in her hand. Her eyes were soft and clear, and appealed maternally to his reason. “Because everything's different. You just think a bit,” she answered. He stared at her a few seconds, and then understanding of her dawned upon him. He made a human young dash at her, and caught her arm. “What!” he cried out. “You mean this Temple Barholm song and dance makes things different? Not on your life! You're not the girl to work that on me, as if it was my fault. You've got to hear me speak my piece. Ann--you've just got to!” He had begun to tremble a little, and she herself was not steady; but she put a hand on his arm. “Don't say anything you've not had time to think about,” she said.