"Then I am very glad," she returned, "that I am here. Can you leave me work to do?" "I am afraid not, beyond that already laid out for to-day. Won't you rest while I am gone? This is vacation time for most people, you know." She shook her head. "With only father to look after I shall have little enough to do." "You won't--forgive me!--go up into that blistering attic and make rugs? I hope not!" She felt that he was looking keenly at her. "Why should you hope not? I am one of the people who must be busy to be contented. How soon do you go, Mr. Jefferson?" "On the noon train." He looked at his watch. "I have an hour to make ready. No, don't go. I will come back when I am ready, and we will put things in shape to leave, so that we shall know exactly where to take them up again." In half an hour he was back, and together the two put the results of their joint work into such shape that at a moment's notice they might resume it. This done, they went to Mr. Warne, and the intending traveler explained briefly the situation--without, as Georgiana fully realized, explaining it at all. Then, shortly, he went away, with something in his manner which subtly told her that he was very glad to go, and that he was thinking of little besides the errand which took him from them, careful though he was in every courteous detail of leave-taking. When he had gone Georgiana and her father looked at each other. "Daughter," said Mr. Warne, looking intently at the vivid face, with the eyes which saw so many things, "do you know what you remind me of?" "No, Father Davy. Of a cross child?" "Of a young colt, penned into a very small enclosure, with only one lame and blind old horse to keep it company. And within sight, off on the hillside, is a great, green pasture, with other colts and lambs sporting gayly about, and the summer sunshine over all--except in the corral, over which a dark cloud hangs. And I am sorry--sorry!" "Father Davy!" Georgiana choked back a lump in her throat. "But it is hot July, and the cloud makes it cooler and nicer in the corral. And besides--the lame, blind horse is such a dear--has drawn such heavy loads and would be so lonely now without company. And--and the colt has many long years to sport on hillsides." Mr. Warne smiled, more sadly than was his wont. "But not while it is a colt." Then, after a pause, "My dear, we shall miss Mr. Jefferson." "Shall we?" "I shall miss him more than I should have realized till I saw him go down the path. And James Stuart, too. That is why I know that you will miss them." "We shall live through it," prophesied his daughter cheerfully, and betook herself to the kitchen, which she found looking, in spite of its well-ordered neatness, more like a jail than ever before.