Bates telephoned. Dear old dad! He and mother have told us about
this place a hundred times! They were talking about it for a couple
of hours a few nights ago." He looked about the room as his father
had done. "They were very happy here. There--" he smiled a little
bashfully at Anne--"there never was a pair of lovers like mother and
dad!" he said. Then he cleared his throat. "Did my father tell you--?"
he began, and stopped.

"No," Anne said, troubled. He had told them a great deal, but not--
she felt sure--not this, whatever it was.

"That's why we worried about him," said his son, his honest,
distressed eyes meeting hers. "You see--you see--we're in trouble at
the house--my mother--my mother left us, last night--"

"Dead?" whispered Anne.

"She's been ill a good while," said the young man, "but we thought--
She's been so ill before! A day or two ago the rest of us knew it,
and we wired for my married sister, but we couldn't get dad to
realize it. He never left her, and he's not been eating, and he'd
tell all the doctors what serious sicknesses she'd gotten over
before--" And with a suddenly shaking lip and filling eyes, he
turned his back on Anne, and went to the window.

"Ah!" said Anne, pitifully. And for a full moment there was silence.

Then Charles Rideout, the younger, came back to her, pushing his
handkerchief into his coat pocket; and with a restored self-control.