go. I have no doubt his heart is sore over it at this moment, and that
he is grieving in a way that would shock you, could you comprehend
it."

"Enough said, mother, enough said. I'll try to be fair."

He went to his room and stood looking out at the rain-washed earth and
the falling leaves. The sky was heavy and drab. He thought of Betty
and her picnic and of how gay and sweet she was, and how altogether
desirable, and the thought wrought a change in his spirit. He went
downstairs and kissed his mother; then he, too, put on his rubber
overshoes and shook himself into his raincoat and carefully adjusted
his hat and his umbrella. Then with the assistance of the old
blackthorn stick he walked away in the rain, limping, it is true, but
nevertheless a younger, sturdier edition of the man who had passed out
before him.

He found Betty alone as he had hoped, for Mary Ballard had gone to
drive her husband to the station. Bertrand was thinking of opening a
studio in the city, at his wife's earnest solicitation, for she
thought him buried there in their village. As for the children--they
were still in school.

Thus it came about that Peter Junior spent the rest of that day with
Betty in her father's studio. He told Betty all his plans. He made
love to her and cajoled her, and was happy indeed. He had a winsome
way, and he made her say she loved him--more than once or twice--and
his heart was satisfied.

"We'll be married just as soon as I return from Paris, and you'll not
miss me so much until then?"

"Oh, no."

"Ah--but--but I hope you will--you know."

"Of course I shall! What would you suppose?"

"But you said no."

"Naturally! Didn't you wish me to say that?"

"I wanted you to tell the truth."

"Well, I did."

"There it is again! I'm afraid you don't really love me."

She tilted her head on one side and looked at him a moment. "Would you
like me to say I don't want you to go to Paris?"

"Not that, exactly; but all the time I'm gone I shall be longing for
you."

"I should hope so! It would be pretty bad if you didn't."

"Now you see what I mean about you. I want you to be longing for me
all the time, until I return."

"All right. I'll cry my eyes out, and I'll keep writing for you to
come home."

"Oh, come now! Tell me what you will do all the time."

"Oh, lots of things. I'll paint pictures, too, and--I'll write--and
help mother just as I do now; and I'll study art without going to
Paris."

"Wi