"Mentally and morally," Gertrude cut in, "the bunch would still supervise her entirely." Jimmie, who was sitting beside her, ran his arm along the back of her chair affectionately, and then thought better of it and drew it away. He was, for some unaccountable reason, feeling awkward and not like himself. There was a girl in New York, with whom he was not in the least in love, who had recently taken it upon herself to demonstrate unmistakably that she was not in love with him. There was another girl who insisted on his writing her every day. Here was Gertrude, who never had any time for him any more, absolutely without enthusiasm at his proximity. He thought it would be a good idea to allow Eleanor to remain where she was and said so. "Not that I won't miss the jolly times we had together, Babe," he said. "I was planning some real rackets this year,--to make up for what I put you through," he added in her ear, as she came and stood beside him for a minute. Gertrude wanted to go abroad for a year, "and lick her wounds," as she told herself. She would have come back for her two months with Eleanor, but she was glad to be relieved of that necessity. Margaret had the secret feeling that the ordeal of the Hutchinsons was one that she would like to spare her foster child, and incidentally herself in relation to the adjustment of conditions necessary to Eleanor's visit. Peter wanted her with him, but he believed the new arrangement would be better for the child. Beulah alone held out for her rights and her parental privileges. The decision was finally left to Eleanor. She stood in the center of the group a little forlornly while they awaited her word. A wave of her old shyness overtook her and she blushed hot and crimson. "It's all in your own hands, dear," Beulah said briskly. "Poor kiddie," Gertrude thought, "it's all wrong somehow." "I don't know what you want me to say," Eleanor said piteously and sped to the haven of Peter's breast. "We'll manage a month together anyway," Peter whispered. "Then I guess I'll stay here," she whispered back, "because next I would have to go to Aunt Beulah's." Peter, turning involuntarily in Beulah's direction, saw the look of chagrin and disappointment on her face, and realized how much she minded playing a losing part in the game and yet how well she was doing it. "She's only a straight-laced kid after all," he thought. "She's put her whole heart and soul into this thing. There's a look about the top part of her face when it's softened that's a little like Ellen's." Ellen was his dead fiancee--the girl in the photograph at home in his desk. "I guess I'll stay here," Eleanor said aloud, "all in one place, and study with Mademoiselle." It was a decision that, on the whole, she never regretted. CHAPTER XIII BROOK AND RIVER "Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet."