He would write to his father that the silica belonged to a Miss Rich, who preferred to deal with principals rather than with subordinates. That might bring his father north. And there could be no harm in leaving the age of Miss Rich to be discovered by the grizzled engineer himself. Some day she would be no longer young, and as he meditatively made his way across the water he lifted up his voice and sang about it—about silver threads among the gold. He knew only one stanza, but it was not really necessary that he should know more than the first word. That happened to be “Darling,” a word which can be sung by any voice and at any pitch. Marvin sang it at a pitch of about a hundred and fifty-five, and as the wind happened to be right it reached a certain girl and made her cry. Meanwhile the doctor, having finished his weeding, had come down to the river to wash his hands. As he bowed his white head beside the dock he heard the sound of oars, and perceived that an old friend was coming in. “Bo-jou, Black Hawk. How is the Red Leaf this morning?” “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since yesterday. But I stopped for your mail on the way down.” Dr. Rich carried the mail up to the house unopened. As he entered, his keen ear caught a sound, muffled and piteous. The door of Jean’s bedroom was closed. He knocked, and, receiving no reply, entered. She was lying face downward on her white camp-bed, sobbing as she had sobbed that April day three years ago. He sat down beside her and smoothed her hair. “I’m afraid that my little girl has been having words with our guest.” She lifted herself on her elbow and began to speak, though her breath came in short catches, like a child’s when it has stopped crying but cannot control its throat. “Daddy, please go with him and see him off.” “What! Is he leaving?” “Yes, daddy.” “Did you send him away?” “Yes, daddy.” “What had the wretch done?” “He pitied me.” The old man was silent a moment, and then murmured, “O Eros, Eros, thou who blindest! But before I go to see this criminal off, we had better look at the mail. Here’s the statement of royalties. Please open it.” Jean controlled herself and obeyed, but she looked so long and blankly at the account that her father spoke again. “Will it be as much as last year?” “No, daddy, it will be less than two hundred—eight cents less.” The news was evidently a blow, but the old man took it quietly. “Jean, considering how many lads are writing text-books, eight cents less than two hundred dollars is a wonderful showing.” “Father, it is just so wonderful that you’ll have to put the mortgage on. You’d better do it today and be done with it.” “My brave little woman, I will. Pledges are the inevitable daughters of loss, as Epicharmus remarked long ago before Roman mortgages ruined the world.” He arose and went to his room for his papers. “Good-by, my comfort. I’ll see Marvin off and be home on the mail boat tomorrow.”