t. It is my own, entirely. Mr. Colton, I--"

"Stop, I tell you! Do you mean to tell me that you are--that you have
been making love to my daughter?"

"No. Certainly not."

"Then what do you mean? That she has been making love to you?"

"Mr. Colton--"

"There! Don't act like the Wild Man of Borneo. Do you mean that you are
in love with her?"

"Don't you see now why I cannot accept? I must go away. I am going."

"Humph! That will do. . . . Humph! Well, Paine--Bennett, I should say;
it is hard to keep track of your names--you are rather--er--reckless,
it seems to me. Mabel is our only child and her mother and I,
naturally, had planned for her future . . . Have you told her of
your--recklessness?"

"Of course not! I shall not see her again. I shall leave Denboro as soon
as I can. She will never know."

"Humph! I see . . . I see . . . Well, I don't know that there is
anything for me to say."

"There is not."

"I am sorry for you, of course."

"Thank you."

There was a sharp rap at the door. Doctor Quimby opened it and entered
the room. He glanced from me to his patient and his face expressed sharp
disapproval.

"You'd better go, Ros," he snapped. "What is the matter with you? Didn't
I tell you not to excite him."

"I'M not excited," observed Colton, drily.

"Clear out this minute!" continued the angry doctor. "Ros Paine, I
thought you had more sense."

"So did I," this from "Big Jim". "However, I am learning a lot these
days. Good-by, Paine."

I was at the door.

"Oh, by the way," he called after me, "let me make a suggestion. If I
were you, Roscoe, I wouldn't leave Denboro to-day. Not before to-morrow
morning, at any rate."

I did not understand him and I asked for no explanation. It was the
first time he had addressed me by my Christian name, but it was not
until afterward that I remembered that fact.

That afternoon I was alone in my haven of refuge, the boathouse. Mother
and I had had a long talk. I told her everything that had transpired.
I kept back nothing, either of my acts or my feelings. She said she was
not sorry for what I had done. She was rather glad, than otherwise, that
I had disclosed our secret to Mr. Colton.

"He knows now, Roscoe," she said. "And he was right, too. You and I have
brooded over our sorrow and what we considered our disgrace much more
than we should. He is right, Boy. We are innocent of any wrong-doing."

"Yes, Mother," I answered, "I suppose we are. But w