ese people
before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask
you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy.
I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you."

And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to
me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering.

"You--you really want me?" she repeated.

"Yes. Yes, I can't tell you--I must not tell you how much I want you.
And your aunt--she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell
you."

Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different.
There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed--or hoped I
noticed.

"No," she said. "No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with
you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite
of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you
did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't
you see--CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you
talk of my happiness!"

"But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?"

"I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy."

"I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?"

"Yes."

I didn't believe that, either, but I did not say so. Instead I said what
I had determined to say, the same thing that I should have said before,
in Mayberry and in Paris--if I could have mustered the courage and
decency to say it.

"Frances," I said, "there is something else, something which may have
a bearing on your happiness, or may not, I don't know. The night before
you left us, at Mayberry, Herbert Bayliss came to me and asked my
permission to marry you, if you were willing. He thought you were my
niece--then. I said that--I said that, although of course I had no
shadow of authority over you, I did care for your happiness. I cared for
that a great deal. If you loved him I should certainly--"

"I see," she broke in, scornfully. "I see. He told you I was here. That
is why you came. Did he send you to me to say--what you are trying to
say?"

"Oh, no, no! You are mistaken. You wrong him, Frances. He did not do
that. He's not that sort. He's a good fellow, an honorable man. And he
does care for you. I know it. He cares greatly. He would, I am sure,
make you a good husband, and if you care for him, he would do his best
to make you happy, I--"

Again she interrupted. "One moment," she said, "Let me underst