ain. It
was a repetition of the aimlessness of the last night's wanderings.
They came back, and she got tea for them, and after that they heard her
stirring about in her own room, as if she were busy about many things;
but they did not dare to look in upon her, even after all the noises
had ceased, and they knew she had gone to bed.

"Yes; it's a thing she's got to fight out by herself," said Mrs Lapham.

"I guess she'll get along," said Lapham. "But I don't want you should
misjudge Pen either. She's all right too. She ain't to blame."

"Yes, I know. But I can't work round to it all at once. I shan't
misjudge her, but you can't expect me to get over it right away."

"Mamma," said Irene, when she was hurrying their departure the next
morning, "what did she tell him when he asked her?"

"Tell him?" echoed the mother; and after a while she added, "She didn't
tell him anything."

"Did she say anything, about me?"

"She said he mustn't come here any more."

Irene turned and went into her sister's room. "Good-bye, Pen," she
said, kissing her with an effect of not seeing or touching her. "I
want you should tell him all about it. If he's half a man, he won't
give up till he knows why you won't have him; and he has a right to
know."

"It wouldn't make any difference. I couldn't have him after----"

"That's for you to say. But if you don't tell him about me, I will."

"'Rene!" "Yes! You needn't say I cared for him. But you can say that
you all thought he--cared for--me."

"O Irene----"

"Don't!" Irene escaped from the arms that tried to cast themselves
about her. "You are all right, Pen. You haven't done anything.
You've helped me all you could. But I can't--yet."

She went out of the room and summoned Mrs. Lapham with a sharp "Now,
mamma!" and went on putting the last things into her trunks.

The Colonel went to the station with them, and put them on the train.
He got them a little compartment to themselves in the Pullman car; and
as he stood leaning with his lifted hands against the sides of the
doorway, he tried to say something consoling and hopeful: "I guess
you'll have an easy ride, Irene. I don't believe it'll be dusty, any,
after the rain last night."

"Don't you stay till the train starts, papa," returned the girl, in
rigid rejection of his futilities. "Get off, now."

"Well, if you want I should," he said, glad to be able to please her in
anything. He remained on the platform till