“How could she help it? I presume you mean,” I observed, sarcastically. “There, Mother, don't worry. I did not intend that you or anyone else should know what an idiot I am, but don't worry--I shan't do anything ridiculous or desperate. I may go somewhere, to get away from Denboro, and to earn a living for you and me, but that is all. We won't speak of her again.” “But if she does care, Boy?” “If she does--Of course, she doesn't--but, if she does, can't you see that only makes it worse? Think who she is and who and what I am! Her family--Humph! you have not met her mother; I have.” “But if she loves you--” “Do you think I should permit her to ruin her life--for me?” “Poor boy! I am SO sorry!” “It is all right, Mother. There! we won't be foolish any longer. I am going for a walk and I want you to rest. I am glad, we have had this talk; it has done me good to speak what I have been thinking. Good-by. I will be back soon.” She would have detained me, but I broke away and went out. My walk was a long one. I tramped the beach for eight long miles and, though one might think that my adventures of the night before had provided exercise enough, this additional effort seemed to do no harm. I forgot dinner entirely and supper was on the table when I returned to the house. I found Dorinda in a condition divided between anxiety and impatience. “Have you seen anything of that man of mine?” she demanded. “I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since I pitched him out of this room this mornin'!” I was surprised and a little disturbed. I remembered Lute's threat about “never seein' me no more.” “You don't suppose he has run away, or anything like that, do you?” I asked. “He wouldn't run far; runnin's too much like work. But why he wan't home for dinner I don't understand. I never knew him to miss a meal's vittles afore. I hope nothin' ain't happened to him, that's all. Well, we'll have our supper, anyhow. After that we'll see.” But we did not have to see. We were at the table when we heard the sound of hurrying footsteps on the walk. The gate closed with a bang. Dorinda rose from her chair. “I swan! I believe that's him now!” she exclaimed. “If it is, he is certainly running this time,” I observed. “What--” The door was thrown open and the missing member of the household appeared. He was red-faced and panting, but there was a curious air of dignified importance in his bearing. Dorinda's lips shut tightly. “Well, Lute,” said I, “where have you been?” Lute struggled for breath. “Don't ask me where I've been!” he gasped. “Don't waste no time askin' ME questions. Get your hat on, Ros! Get your hat on this minute! Where did I put that? Where in time did I put it?” He was fumbling in his pockets. Dorinda and I looked at each other. She shook her head. “He's gone stark foolish at last!” she said, with decision. “Well, I've been expectin' it! Lute Rogers, stop pawin' yourself over and act sensible, if you can. What is the matter with you?”