there is any chance. I can talk about it
with you more easily--somehow."

She shrugged her shoulders with a strange air of exhaustion; it was the
yielding of one too tired to argue.

"Very well," she breathed, "go now, and I will ask her. Come this
evening. You will excuse--"

She made a vague motion. The colonel pitied her tremendously in a blind
way. Was it all this to lose a daughter? How she loved her!

"Perhaps to-morrow morning," he suggested, but she shook her head
vehemently.

"No, to-night, to-night!" she cried. "Lady will know directly. Come
tonight!"

He went out a little depressed. Already a tiny cloud hung between them.
Suppose their pleasant waters had been troubled for worse than nothing?
Suddenly his case appeared hopeless to him. What folly--a man of his
years, and that fresh young creature with all her life before her! He
wondered that he could have dreamed of it; he wished the evening over
and the foolish mistake forgiven.

His sister was full of plans and dates, and her talk covered his almost
absolute silence. After dinner she retired again into packing, and he
strode through the dusk to the cottage; his had not been a training that
seeks to delay the inevitable.

The two women sat, as usual at this hour, on the porch. Their white
gowns shimmered against the dark honeysuckle-vine. He halted at the
steps and took off the old fatigue-cap he sometimes wore, standing
straight and tall before them.

Mrs. Leroy leaned back in her chair; the faintest possible gesture
indicated her daughter, who had risen and stood beside her.

"Colonel Driscoll," she said in a low, uneven voice, "my daughter wishes
me to say to you that she appreciates deeply the honor you do her, and
that if you wish it she will be your wife. She--she is sure she will be
happy."

The colonel felt his heart leap up and hit heavily against his chest.
Was it possible? A great gratitude and pride glowed softly through him.
He walked nearly up the steps and stood just below her, lifting her hand
to his lips.

"My dear, dear child," he said slowly, "you give me too much, but you
must not measure my thankfulness for the gift by my deserts. Whatever a
man can do to make you and your mother happy shall be done so long as I
live."

She smiled gravely into his eyes and bowed her head slightly; like all
her little motions, it had the effect of a graceful ceremony. Then,
slipping loose her hand, she seated herself on a low stool bes