“Banks comes of gentlemen. He inherited his opinions,” said Paul. “He may have inherited a few other things, if we could have patience with him.” “Are you sorry for Banks?” “I shall be sorry for him--when he meets you. He has been spared that too long.” “Dispenser of destinies, I bow as I always do!” “You will speak to your mother at once?” “I will.” “And do it beautifully?” “As well as I know how.” “Ah, you have had such practice! How good it would be if we could only dare to quarrel in this family! You and I--of course!” “_We_ quarrel, of course!” laughed Paul. “I _love_ to quarrel with you!” “You do it beautifully. You have had such practice!” “I am so happy! It is clear to me now that we shall live down this misery. Christine will love to see me again; I know she will. A wife is a very different thing from a girl--a haughty girl!” “I should think the wife of Banks Bowen might be.” “And we'll part with our ancient and honorable grudge! We are getting too big for it. _We_ are parents!” Paul made the proposition to his mother and she agreed to it in every particular save the one. She would remain at Stone Ridge. It was impossible to move her. Moya was in despair. She had cultivated an overweening conscience in her relations with Mrs. Bogardus. It turned upon her now and showed her the true state of her own mind at the thought of being Two once more and alone with the child God had given them. Mrs. Bogardus appeared to see nothing but her own interests in the matter. She had made up her mind. And in spite of the conscientious scruples on all sides, the hedging and pleading and explaining, all were happier in the end for her decision. She herself was softened by it, and she yielded one point in return. Paul had steadily opposed his mother's plan of housekeeping, alone with one maid and a man who slept at the stables. The Dunlops, as it happened, were childless for the winter, young Chauncey attending a “commercial college” in a neighboring town. After many interviews and a good deal of self-importance on Cerissa's part, the pair were persuaded to close the old house and occupy the servants' wing on the Hill, as a distinct family, yet at hand in case of need. It was late autumn before all these arrangements could be made. Paul and Moya, leaving the young scion aged nineteen months in the care of his nurse and his grandmother, went down the river to open the New York house. XXIV INDIAN SUMMER The upper fields of Stone Ridge, so the farmers said, were infested that autumn by a shy and solitary vagrant, who never could be met with face to face, but numbers of times had been seen across the width of a lot, climbing the bars, or closing a gate, or vanishing up some crooked lane that quickly shut him from view. “I would look after that old chap if I was you, Chauncey. He'll be smoking in your hay barns, and burn you out some o' these cold nights.”