How Providence had watched over them! “She won’t tell him. I know that much.” “Then, Agnes, darling”—he drew her to the table “we must talk together a little. If she won’t, then we ought to.” “_We_ tell him?” cried the girl, white with horror. “Tell him now, when everything has been comfortably arranged?” “You see, darling”—he took hold of her hand—“what one must do is to think the thing out and settle what’s right. I’m still all trembling and stupid. I see it mixed up with other things. I want you to help me. It seems to me that here and there in life we meet with a person or incident that is symbolical. It’s nothing in itself, yet for the moment it stands for some eternal principle. We accept it, at whatever costs, and we have accepted life. But if we are frightened and reject it, the moment, so to speak, passes; the symbol is never offered again. Is this nonsense? Once before a symbol was offered to me—I shall not tell you how; but I did accept it, and cherished it through much anxiety and repulsion, and in the end I am rewarded. There will be no reward this time. I think, from such a man—the son of such a man. But I want to do what is right.” “Because doing right is its own reward,” said Agnes anxiously. “I do not think that. I have seen few examples of it. Doing right is simply doing right.” “I think that all you say is wonderfully clever; but since you ask me, it _is_ nonsense, dear Rickie, absolutely.” “Thank you,” he said humbly, and began to stroke her hand. “But all my disgust; my indignation with my father, my love for—” He broke off; he could not bear to mention the name of his mother. “I was trying to say, I oughtn’t to follow these impulses too much. There are others things. Truth. Our duty to acknowledge each man accurately, however vile he is. And apart from ideals” (here she had won the battle), “and leaving ideals aside, I couldn’t meet him and keep silent. It isn’t in me. I should blurt it out.” “But you won’t meet him!” she cried. “It’s all been arranged. We’ve sent him to the sea. Isn’t it splendid? He’s gone. My own boy won’t be fantastic, will he?” Then she fought the fantasy on its own ground. “And, bye the bye, what you call the ‘symbolic moment’ is over. You had it up by the Rings. You tried to tell him, I interrupted you. It’s not your fault. You did all you could.” She thought this excellent logic, and was surprised that he looked so gloomy. “So he’s gone to the sea. For the present that does settle it. Has Aunt Emily talked about him yet?” “No. Ask her tomorrow if you wish to know. Ask her kindly. It would be so dreadful if you did not part friends, and—” “What’s that?” It was Stephen calling up from the drive. He had come back. Agnes threw out her hand in despair. “Elliot!” the voice called.