"Yes, almost," she said, with a dreary little smile. "You see,
he'll get old, and--and have no one to look after him."

"He will."

"And no home."

"Well, in a sense, none," corrected the philosopher, smiling. "But
really you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss
May."

"Yes," she whispered, just audibly.

"And all your terrors are before me."

"Well, unless--"

"Oh, we needn't have that 'unless,'" laughed the philosopher,
cheerfully. "There's no 'unless' about it, Miss May."

The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the
philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and at the thought
of what lay at her tongue's tip her face grew red. But the philosopher
was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on
the gleaming paddock.

"A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure," said he.

Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without