Mrs. Willers thought her state of dreary apathy curious and spoke of it to Shackleton, whom she now recognized as the girl’s acknowledged guardian. He had listened to her account of Mariposa’s broken condition with expressionless attention. “Isn’t it natural, all things considered, that a girl should be broken-hearted over the death of a devoted mother? And, as I understand it, Miss Moreau is absolutely alone. She has no relatives anywhere. It’s a pretty bleak outlook.” “That’s true. I never saw a girl left so without connections. But she worries me. She’s so silent, and dull, and unlike herself. Of course, it’s been a terrible blow. I’d have thought she’d been more prepared.” He shrugged his shoulders, stroking his short beard with his lean, heavily-veined hand. It amused him to see the way Mrs. Willers was quietly pushing him into the position of the girl’s sponsor. And at the same time it heightened his opinion of her as a woman of capacity and heart. She would be an ideal chaperone and companion for his unprotected daughter. “When she feels better,” he said, “I wish you’d bring her down here again. Don’t bother her until she feels equal to it. But I want to talk to her about Lepine’s ideas for her. I saw him again and he gave me a lot of information about Paris and teachers and all the rest of it. Before we make any definite arrangements I’ll have to see her and talk it all over.” Mrs. Willers went back triumphant to Mariposa to report this conversation. It really seemed to clinch matters. The Bonanza King had instituted himself her guardian and backer. It meant fortune for Mariposa Moreau, the penniless orphan. To her intense surprise, Mariposa listened to her with a flushed and frowning face of indignation. “I won’t go,” she said, with sudden violence. “But, my dear!” expostulated Mrs. Willers, “your whole future depends on it. With such an influence to back you as that, your fortune’s made. And listen to me, honey, for I know,--it’s not an easy job for a woman to get on who’s alone and as good-looking as you are.” “I won’t go,” repeated Mariposa, angry and obstinate. “But why not, for goodness’ sake?”--in blank amaze. “What’s come over you? Is it your mourning? You know your mother’s the last person who’d want you to sit indoors, moping like a snail in a shell, when your future was waiting for you outside the door.” Her promise rose up before Mariposa’s mental vision and checked the angry reiteration that was on her lips. She turned away, suddenly, tremulous and pale. “Don’t talk about it any more,” she answered, “but I _can’t_ go now. Perhaps later on, but not now--I can’t go now.”