hesitation or doubt in his
next speech.

"If he does it will make no difference," he declared. "I care a whole
lot for Dad and I'd do anything on earth for him--anything but the one
thing, that is: I won't give you up--provided you care for me--for him
or for anyone else. That's final."

He certainly looked as if it were. But Mary only shook her head. In the
new thoughts and new imaginings which had come to her during the past
winter there had been a vague foreshadowing of a possible situation
somewhat like this. She had her answer ready.

"Oh, no, it isn't," she said. "You are his son, his only child,
Crawford. He cares so much for you. You have often told me that,
and--and I know he must. And you and he have been so happy together. Do
you think I would be the cause of breaking that relationship?"

He waved the question aside and asked one of his own.

"Do you love me, Mary?" he asked.

"You mustn't ask me, Crawford. Write your father. Tell him everything.
Will you?"

"Yes, I will. I should have done it, anyway. If I go home, and I suppose
I must, I shall tell him; it will be better than writing. But I want
your answer before I go. Won't you give it to me?"

He looked very handsome and very manly, as he stood there pleading. But
Mary had made up her mind.

"I can't, Crawford," she said. "Perhaps I don't know. I do know that it
would not be right for me to say what you want me to say--now. Go home
to your father; he needs you. Tell him everything and then--write me."

He looked at her, a long, long look. Then he nodded slowly.

"All right," he said; "I will. I will tell him that I mean to marry you.
If he says yes--as he will, I'm sure--then I'll write you that. If he
says no, I'll write you that. But in either case, Mary Lathrop, I shall
marry you just the same. Your own no will be the only thing that can
prevent it. And now may I come and see you tomorrow evening?"

"Not tomorrow, Crawford. When will you start for home?"

"Saturday, I think. May I come the day after tomorrow? Just to say
good-by, you know."

Mary was troubled. She could not deny him and yet she was certain it
would be better for them both if he did not come.

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully. "But only to say good-by. You must
promise that."

There was a ring at the bell. Then Maggie, the maid, appeared to
announce that the Howe motor car was waiting at the curb. A few moments
later Mary was in her room adjusting her new hat before