David stood by the open door of the blue chamber half an hour later and watched Eleanor on her knees, repacking her suit-case. Her face was set in pale determined lines, and she looked older and a little sick. Outside it was blowing a September gale, and the trees were waving desperate branches in the wind. David had thought that the estate on the Hudson would appeal to the little girl. It had always appealed to him so much, even though his mother's habits of migration with the others of her flock at the different seasons had left him so comparatively few associations with it. He had thought she would like the broad sweeping lawns and the cherubim fountain, the apple orchard and the kitchen garden, and the funny old bronze dog at the end of the box hedge. When he saw how she was occupied, he understood that it was not her intention to stay and explore these things. "Eleanor," he said, stepping into the room suddenly, "what are you doing with your suit-case? Didn't Mademoiselle unpack it for you?" He was close enough now to see the signs of tears she had shed. "Yes, Uncle David." "Why are you packing it again?" Her eyes fell and she tried desperately to control a quivering lip. "Because I am--I want to go back." "Back where?" "To Cape Cod." "Why, Eleanor?" "I ain't wanted," she said, her head low. "I made up my mind to go back to my own folks. I'm not going to be adopted any more." David led her to the deep window-seat and made her sit facing him. He was too wise to attempt a caress with this issue between them. "Do you think that's altogether fair to me?" he asked presently. "I guess it won't make much difference to you. Something else will come along." "Do you think it will be fair to your other aunts and uncles who have given so much care and thought to your welfare?" "They'll get tired of their bargain." "If they do get tired of their bargain it will be because they've turned out to be very poor sports. I've known every one of them a long time, and I've never known them to show any signs of poor sportsmanship yet. If you run away without giving them their chance to make good, it will be you who are the poor sport." "She said you would marry and get tired of me, and I would have to go back to the country. If you marry and Uncle Jimmie marries--then Uncle Peter will marry, and--" "You'd still have your Aunts Beulah and Margaret and Gertrude," David could not resist making the suggestion. "They could do it, too. If one person broke up the vow, I guess they all would. Misfortunes never come singly." "But even if we did, Eleanor, even if we all married, we'd still regard you as our own, our child, our charge." "_She_ said you wouldn't." The tears came now, and David gathered the little shaking figure to his breast. "I don't want to be the wife of the farmer for whom fate intended me," she sobbed. "I want to marry somebody refined with extravagant living and associations."