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.