“You are!” I cried. “Why, I never heard of anything so--” I couldn't find the word for it, but everything stopped being puzzling and unhappy and looked clear and plain. “Yes,” said he. “It's very convenient, isn't it? We can talk over your future, and you could even take a lesson or two in psychology. But I fancy we shall have a good deal to do looking for porpoises and asking what the run is. People are terribly busy at sea.” Then it occurred to me that he had never been here before, and why was he here now? “How did you happen to come?” I asked. I suppose I really felt as if God sent him. “Why,” said he, “why--” Then he laughed. “Well,” said he, “to tell the truth, I was going abroad if--if certain things happened, and I needed to make sure. I didn't want to write, so I ran down to see Charlie Ned.” “But could he tell you?” said I. “And had they happened?” He laughed, as if at something I needn't share. “No,” he said, “the things weren't going to happen. But I decided to go abroad.” I was “curiouser and curiouser,” as Lorraine says. “But,” I insisted, “what had Charles Edward to do with it?” There were a great many pauses that night as if, I think, he didn't know what was wise to say. I should imagine it would always be so with psychologists. They understand so well what effect every word will have. “Well, to tell the truth,” he answered, at last, in a kind, darling way, “I wanted to make sure all was well with my favorite pupil before I left the country. I couldn't quite go without it.” “Mr. Dane,” I said, “you don't mean me?” “Yes,” he answered, “I mean you.” I could have danced and sung with happiness. “Oh,” said I, “then I must have been a better scholar than I thought. I feel as if I could teach psychology--this minute.” “You could,” said he, “this minute.” And we both laughed and didn't know, after all, what we were laughing at--at least I didn't. But suddenly I was cold with fear. “Why,” I said, “if you've only really decided to go to-night, how do you know you can get a passage on our ship?” “Because, sweet Lady Reason,” said he, “I used Charlie Ned's telephone and found out.” (That was a pretty name--sweet Lady Reason.) We didn't talk any more then for a long time, because suddenly the moon seemed so bright and the garden so sweet. But all at once I heard a step on the gravel walk, and I knew who it was. “That's Charles Edward,” I said. “He's been home with Aunt Elizabeth. We must go in.” “No!” said he. “No, Peggy. There won't be such another night.” Then he laughed quickly and got up. “Yes,” he said, “there will be such nights--over and over again. Come, Peggy, little psychologist, we'll go in.” We found Lorraine and Charles Edward standing in the middle of the room, holding hands and looking at each other. “You're a hero,” Lorraine was saying, “and a gentleman and a scholar and my own particular Peter.”