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“You don’t mean to speak to anybody else?” asked Tom.

“Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might hurt father.”

“Why, dear?”

“That is what I cannot tell you,” replied Annie, looking into his face with a troubled smile.

Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her.

“Oh, well, dear,” he said, “it is all right. I know perfectly well you would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged to start tomorrow without a word from you I shouldn’t have cared a hang whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here; you know that, darling.”

“Yes,” replied Annie.

“You are the only one,” repeated Tom, “but it seems to me this minute as if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don’t quite like to leave you here living alone, except for Effie.”

“Oh, I am within a stone’s-throw of father’s,” said Annie, lightly.

“I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry me?”

Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a busy life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. “Whenever you like, after you come home,” said she.

“It can’t be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What will you do while I am gone, dear?”

Annie laughed. “Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do — get ready to be married.”

“That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Girls are so funny,” said Tom. “Now imagine a man sitting right down and sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a girl said she’d marry him!”

“Girls like it.”

“Well, I suppose they do,” said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from a tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical details in a woman’s soul.

He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through the gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes. She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her love, and they would suffice.

The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked solemnly over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction. Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But she said as little as she could.

“I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable.” Having said this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny sitting-room. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine strength as his daughter Annie’s. However, he secretly held her dearer than all his other children.

After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little speeches: “Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well,” over and over.

Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed the little girl.