"Why, dad, I've been right here--in fact, I've been very much right here!" The conscious color that crept to the boy's forehead should have been illuminating. But it was not. "Yes, yes, very likely, very likely," frowned the man. "But, of course, with so many around-- But soon we'll be by ourselves again. Not but what I'm enjoying your aunt's visit, of course," he added hastily. "But here are two weeks of your vacation gone, and I've scarcely seen you a minute." "Yes; and that's one thing I wanted to talk about--college," plunged in the boy. "I've decided I don't want to finish my course, dad. I'd rather go into business right away." The man drew his brows together, but did not look entirely displeased. "Hm-m, well," he hesitated. "While I should hate not to see you graduated, yet--it's not so bad an idea, after all. I'd be glad to have you here for good that much earlier, son. But why this sudden right-about-face? I thought you were particularly keen for that degree." Again the telltale color flamed in the boyish cheeks. "I was--once. But, you see, then I wasn't thinking of--getting married." "Married!" To John Denby it seemed suddenly that a paralyzing chill clutched his heart and made it skip a beat. This possible future marriage of his son, breaking into their close companionship, was the dreaded shadow that loomed ever ahead. "Nonsense, boy! Time enough to think of that when you've found the girl." "But I have found her, dad." John Denby paled perceptibly. "You have--what?" he demanded. "You don't mean that you've-- Who is she?" "Helen. Why, dad, you seem surprised," laughed the boy. "Haven't you noticed--suspected?" "Well, no I haven't," retorted the man grimly. "Why should I? I never heard of the young lady before. What is this--some college tomfoolery? I might have known, I suppose, what would happen." "College! Why, dad, she's _here_. You know her. It's Helen,--Miss Barnet." "Here! There's no one here but your aunt and--" He stopped, and half started from his chair. "You don't--you can't mean--your aunt's nursemaid!" At the scornful emphasis an indignant red dyed the boy's face. "I didn't think that of you, dad," he rebuked. Angry as he was, the man was conscious of the hurt the words gave him. But he held his ground. "And I did not think this of you, Burke," he rejoined coldly. "You mean--" "I mean that I supposed my son would show some consideration as to the woman he chose for his wife." "Father!" The boyish face set into stern lines. The boyish figure drew itself erect with a majesty that would have been absurd had it not been so palpably serious. "I can't stand much of this sort of thing, even from you. Miss Barnet is everything that is good and true and lovely. She is in every way worthy--more than worthy. Besides, she is the woman I love--the woman I have asked to be my wife. Please remember that when you speak of her."