nd
his son would quarrel. Crawford had inherited a portion of his father's
stubbornness; he was determined, she knew. He loved her and he meant
what he said--if she would have him he would marry her in spite of his
father. It made her proud and happy to know that. But she, too, was
resolute and had meant what she said. She would not be the cause of a
separation between father and son. And, besides, marriage had become
for her a matter of the distant future; for the present her task was set
there at South Harniss.

What should she do? It was hard for Crawford, poor fellow. Yes, but it
was hard for her, too. No one but she knew how hard. He would write her
again telling her that his decision was unchanged, begging her to
say she loved him, pleading with her to wait for him. And she would
wait--Oh, how gladly, how joyfully she could wait--for him!--if she knew
she was doing right in permitting him to wait for her. If she was sure
that in permitting him to give up his father's love and his home and
money and all that money could buy she was justified. There is a love
which asks and a love which gives without asking return; the latter is
the greater love and it was hers. She had written Crawford that perhaps
she was not sure of her feeling toward him. That was not true. She was
sure; but because she was fearful that his knowledge might be the means
of entailing a great sacrifice on his part, she would not tell him.

What should she do? She considered, as the little Mary-'Gusta used to
consider her small problems in that very room. And the result of her
considerations was rather unsatisfactory. There was nothing she could
do now, nothing but wait until she heard again from Crawford. Then she
would write.

She brushed her eyes with her handkerchief and read the letter again.
There were parts of it which she could not understand. She was almost
inclined to adopt Crawford's suggestion that his father's mind might
have been affected by his illness. Why had he received so passively the
news that his son had fallen in love and yet become so violent when told
the object of that love? He did not know her, Mary Lathrop; there could
be no personal quality in his objection. And what could he have meant by
asking if Zoeth Hamilton had sent Crawford to him? That was absolutely
absurd. Zoeth, and Shadrach, too, had talked with Mary of Crawford's
people in the West, but merely casually, as of complete strangers,
which, of course, they we