“Oh, Mother, don’t let him go. I don’t want him to go.” With a bitter look at her husband, the mother gathered her child into her arms for a brief moment or two, then lightly cried, “Hut! tut! What’s all this about? If Paul wants to go home for a while, why shouldn’t he go? We’ll see him every day. And he will come back again in a few days.” “He will not. He says he will never come back. He says we won’t want him to come back. You did,” said Peg, glaring at the boy through her tears. “You know you did.” Peg’s words released the boy’s emotional tension. He glared back at her, indignant that she should thus betray his confidence. Hoping against hope, but too simply sincere to temporise, the Colonel turned to Paul and, as if talking man to man, said gravely, “You have thought this over carefully, Paul?” “Yes, sir. I’ve been thinking all night.” “And you feel you must leave us?” “Yes, sir.” “But, what nonsense, Paul! Why must you go?” enquired Augusta impatiently. “I—don’t know. Daddy—I think Daddy’s awful—awfully lonely,” said the boy, dumb misery in his face. “Why must he go, Daddy?” appealed Peg. “Why?” The little Colonel rose to his feet, went and stood beside the boy, and put his hand on his shoulder. “You want to know why he must go, Peg?” His voice rang out vibrant and clear. “Then listen to me. He goes because, b’gad, he’s a gentleman.” A hot flush surged over the boy’s face. He flashed up one swift glance into the Colonel’s eyes, a glance of adoring gratitude. Here was a man who could understand a fellow. His head went up and his shoulders back. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and walked steadily out of the house, and for many a day was seen therein no more. Nor did the Colonel run across him for well nigh a month. For it was well toward the end of September when, riding along the upper trail, he met the boy on his pinto and hailed him jovially. “Hello, you young rascal! Why have you never been to see your friends? Don’t you know you are behaving very badly indeed?” Paul smiled back at him in unfeigned joy. “Oh, Uncle Colonel, I’m awful glad to see you. I just wanted to see you awfully much.” “Oh, you did, eh? Strange, too. The trail to the white house I believe is still open. And your eyesight appears to be fairly good.” “Oh, Uncle Colonel, I don’t know what to do.” The distress in the boy’s face sobered the little Colonel. “Tut, tut, boy! What is so very wrong? I saw your father a couple of days ago and he was looking fairly fit, better indeed than for some time.” “Yes, I know, I know—but, oh, I can’t tell you, Uncle Colonel.”