I had been longing for a smoke and now I filled my pipe and lighted it. “Now we can talk, can't we?” she said. “I want you to tell me about your mother. How is she?” “Just as she was when you saw her,” I answered. “Mother is always the same.” “She is a dear. I had heard so many nice things about her and I was not disappointed. I intended to make only a short call and I stayed and stayed. I hope I did not tire her.” “Not at all. Mother enjoyed your call exceedingly.” “Did she? I am so glad. I really am. I went to your house with a good deal of misgiving, Mr. Paine. I feared that my coming might be considered an intrusion.” “I told you that it would not.” “I know. But, under the circumstances--Father's disagreement with--considering all the--the--Oh, what shall I call it?” “The late unpleasantness,” I suggested. Again came the twinkle in her eye. She nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “That is a quotation, but it was clever of you to think of it. Yes, considering the late unpleasantness, I was afraid my visit might be misunderstood. I was fearful that your mother or--someone--might think I came there with an ulterior motive, something connected with that troublesome Lane dispute. Of course no one did think such a thing?” She asked the question quickly and with intense seriousness. I remembered Lute's hint and my own secret suspicions, but I answered promptly. “Of course not,” I said. “You did not think that, did you?” “No,” unblushingly. “I came because from what I had heard of your mother I was sure she must be a wonderful woman. I wanted to meet her. And she IS wonderful; and so patient and sweet and good. I fell in love with her. Everyone must love her. You should be proud of your mother, Mr. Paine.” “I am,” I answered, simply. “You have reason. And she is very proud of you.” “Without the reason, I'm afraid.” She did not speak. Her silence hurt. I felt that I knew what she was thinking and I determined to make her say it. “Without the reason,” I repeated. “I did not say that.” “But you thought it.” My stubborn persistence was a mistake. Again, as at our meeting in the grove, I had gone too far. Her answer was as completely indifferent as speech and tone could be. “Indeed?” she said, coldly. “It is barely possible that I did not think about it at all. . . . Now, Mr. Paine, if you are ready shall we clear away?” The clearing, most of it, was done silently. I washed the plates, the coffee pot and other things, in the pond and she packed them in the basket. As I returned with the knife and forks I found her looking at the coffee pot and smiling. “What is the matter?” I asked, sulkily. I was provoked with myself for forgetting who and what I was, and with her for making me forget. “Isn't it clean?” “Why, yes,” she answered, “surprisingly so. Did they teach Domestic Science at your college, too?” I started. “MY college!” I repeated. “How did you know I had been at college? Did Mother tell you?” She laughed gleefully.