"Let him be, let him be!" Rutherford said. "He's a poor little stick of a man, and he's here too often. Why can I never have the house to myself?" "It's a long time since he has been here, Jim." She had one of his hands in hers. "Ask him, Alexander. And tell him to bring that girl of his, if he will." "Need we have the girl?" "He'll be happier with her." Her glance went to the mantelpiece, and Alexander's followed. He was near crying out, "But that's not the one he'll bring!" and then the thought flashed: "But she must be like that, or how did we ever get her picture?" The reality and the dream jostled each other, merged, and separated with all their outlines blurred. Discomfort was in his breast like a snake in grass. "I'm against asking the girl," he said firmly. James Rutherford lifted his head. "And I'm for it. You don't consult me--either of you. Isn't this my house? We'll have the girl; but aren't there two of them? Let's have them both. Two of them, aren't there, Clara? Well, then, Alexander--both." He stood before the fire and stroked his beard. "They shall be asked. There is also an uncle." "Oh, never mind him! Three's enough." Alexander went away laughing, but he was uneasy until he had the letter in which Edward Webb accepted the invitation for himself, and refused it for both his daughters. CHAPTER XVI He had begged Theresa to go with him, but she had snapped her pale lips on her decision. "I'm not going." He looked anxiously at her. The thin figure drooped in its mourning, and her neck seemed without sufficient strength to hold her head and its thick, untidy hair. "You don't look well," he murmured in distress. "Theresa, don't people sometimes have their hair cut off; when they're ill, I mean?" "I believe so--yes." "I think, my dear, you ought to sacrifice some of yours. You have so much of it, and it seems to tire you." "But I haven't got a fever!" she protested. Under her shadowed eyes the nerves were twitching. She wished he would not discuss her; she wanted to forget her own existence. "No, you're too pale for that," he agreed, gazing at her so earnestly that she laughed. He raised his brows. "I don't know why you are amused, my dear, but I know the mountains would make you strong. And you've always wanted to go there. Why won't you?" She could not tell him the whole truth. She could not say: "I thought so wickedly of you and the woman there that I cannot face you both together. And the mountains would frown on me in anger and frighten me. I must wait till I'm forgiven." She told part of the truth. "I've to learn to earn my own living, and I must begin. And, besides, I never did like Alexander. If he wasn't going to be there----" "I don't want to press it," he said, and left her a little disappointed that he had not pursued the subject.