That she should disappoint him with these persistent and almost indecent inquiries, considering the situation, hurt and irritated him. It was so out of keeping with her general suggestion of something sensitive and girlishly naïve. “I _had_ intended building a hotel; came here with that intention. But--” He rose to his feet and said coldly, “Don’t you think we’d better be going back again? It’s quite a long walk.” “But?”--she echoed, unheeding his last sentences--“but what?” She made no movement save to clasp her hands on the broken fern. Her face, raised to him, suddenly was pale and set in a curious tenseness of inquiry. It moved the Colonel strangely. “But what?” she repeated insistently. “You were going to say something else.” “My dear little girl,” he answered, “don’t trouble your head about these things. It’s--it’s--a man’s dispute and for men to settle. But rest assured of one thing, you’ll not suffer by it.” “I!” she exclaimed; “it’s not I that matters. But, Colonel Parrish, our mother.” She stopped, her voice quivering like a taut string. “Your mother?” said the Colonel, with a rising inflection. “You see how it is with her. Let us stay. Let us stay a little while longer.” “Did you bring me up here to ask me this?” he said, looking steadily at her. “Yes. I wanted to see you somewhere away from the house, and I thought the spring would be a good excuse. Talking of these things makes me”--the tears rose to her eyes and stood thick in them--“makes me do like this.” They ran over and she brushed them away with her hand. “You can see; you understand about mother,” she went on, struggling to speak clearly. “It’s only a question of time. It’s nearly the end of everything. And I brought you up here to-day to ask you to let us stay--right or wrong--let us stay till then.” Her voice broke and she held her head down, trying to suppress her sobs. The Colonel turned away, walked to where the tin cup hung, took it off its twig, and looked into it. “Don’t do that,” he said, his voice rough; “for Heaven’s sake, stop. I’d be angry with you for asking me such a thing if you weren’t so--so--I don’t know what. Of course you’re going to stay.” “What?” he was not looking at her, but was conscious that she had stiffened both in mental and physical fiber at the word--“you’re going to let us stay?” “Of course. As long as you want, always. Don’t talk any more about it.” A quick sound came from her, and he heard the rustle of her dress as she rose, her footsteps on the stone near him, and then felt her beside him. She seized the hand hanging at his side, pressed it against the softness of her bosom and against her cheek, then dropped it with a murmur of broken words. He turned on her bruskly. Her face was shining with tears, but she was smiling. She tried to speak to him, but he laid a finger on her lips and looked at her, shaking his head.