"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when you do."

"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.

Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"

"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is certainly a very pretty girl."

"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.

The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.

"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."

The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad,"

he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes--as a guest."

Allison's fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate. "Dad! What do you mean?"

"No house is large enough for two families," repeated the Colonel, with an unconscious, parrot-like accent.

"Why, Dad! We've always stood together--surely you won't desert me now?"

The old man's eyes softened with mist. He could not trust himself to meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.

"I can't understand," Allison went on, doubtfully. "Is it possible-- could she-did-Isabel--?"

"No" said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes. "She didn't!"

"Of course she didn't," returned Allison, fully satisfied. "She couldn't--she's not that kind. What a brute I was even to think it! But why, Dad? Please tell me why!"

"Francesca asked me this afternoon if I would come to her and Rose, after the--afterwards, you know, and I promised."

"If you promised, I suppose that settles it," remarked Allison, gloomily, "but I wish you hadn't. I can understand that they would want you, too, for of course they'll be desperately lonely after Isabel goes away."

A certain peace crept into the old man's sore heart. Surely there was something to live for still.

"I hope you didn't tell Aunt Francesca you'd stay there always," Allison was saying, anxiously.

"No," answered the Colonel, with a smile; "there was no limit specified."

"Then we'll consider it only a visit and a short one at that--just until they get a little used to Isabel's being away. This is your rightful place, Dad, and Isabel and I both want you--don't ever forget that!"

When Allison had gone in search of his beloved, the Colonel sat on the veranda alone, accustomed, now, to evenings spent thus. His garden promised well, he thought, having produced two or three sickly roses in the very first season. The shrubs and trees that had survived ten years of neglect had been pruned and tied and would doubtless do well next year, if Isabel--

"I hope he'll never find out," the Colonel said to himself. Then he remembered that, for the first time in his life, he had lied to his son, and took occasion to observe the highly spectacular effect of an untruth from an habitually truthful person.

"He never doubted me, not for an instant," mused the Colonel, "but it's just as well that I'm going. She could probably manage it, if we lived in the same house, so that I'd have to tell at least one lie a day, and I'm not an expert. Perfection might come with practice--I've known it to--but I'm too old to begin."

He was deeply grateful to Francesca for her solution of the problem that confronted him. It had appeared and been duly solved in the s.p.a.ce of half an hour. She had been his good angel for more than thirty years. It might be very pleasant to live there, after he became accustomed to the change, and with Allison so near--why, he couldn't be half as lonely as he was now. So his thoughts drifted into a happier channel and he was actually humming an old song to himself when he heard Allison's step, almost at midnight, on the road just beyond the gate.

He went in quietly, closed the door, and was in his own room when Allison's latch-key rattled in the lock. The Colonel took pains not to be heard moving about, but it was unnecessary, for Allison's heart was beating in time with its own music, and surging with the nameless rapture that comes but once.

Down in the moon-lit, dream-haunted garden, Allison waited for Isabel, as the First Man might have waited for the First Woman, in another garden, countless ages ago. Stars were mirrored in the lily-pool; the waning moon swung low. The roses had gone, except a few of the late- blooming sort, but the memory of their fragrance lingered still in the velvet dusk.

No music came from the quiet house, for Rose had not touched the piano since That Night. It stood out in his remembrance in capitals, as it did in hers, for widely different reasons. Only Isabel, cherishing no foolish sentiment as to dates and places, could have forgotten That Night.

With a lover's fond fancy, Allison had written a note to Isabel, asking her to meet him in the garden by the lily-pool, at nine, and to wear the silver-spangled gown. It was already past the hour and he had begun to be impatient, though he was sure she had received the note.

A cobweb in the gra.s.s at his feet shone faintly afar--like Isabel's spangles, he thought. A soft-winged wayfarer of the night brushed lightly against his cheek in pa.s.sing, and he laughed aloud, to think that a grey moth should bring the memory of a kiss. Then, with a swift sinking of the heart, he remembered Isabel's unvarying coldness. Never for an instant had she answered him as Rose--

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, angrily. "What an unspeakable cad I am!"

There was a light step on the path and Isabel appeared out of the shadows. She was holding up her skirts and seemed annoyed. In the first glance Allison noted that she was not wearing the spangled gown.

She submitted to his eager embrace and endured his kiss; even the blindest lover could not have said more. Yet her coldness only thrilled him to the depths with love of her, as has been the way of men since the world began.

"I don't understand this foolishness," she said, fretfully, as she released herself from his encircling arm. "It's damp and chilly out here, and I'll get wet and take cold."

"It isn't damp, darling, and you can't take cold. Why didn't you wear the spangles?"

"Do you suppose I want to spoil my best gown dragging it through the wet gra.s.s?"

"The gra.s.s isn't wet, and, anyhow, you haven't been on it--only on the path. Come over here to the bench and sit down."

"I don't want to. I want to go in."

"All right, but not just yet. I'll carry you, if you're afraid of dampness." Before she could protest, he had picked her up and laughingly seated her on the bench at the edge of the lily-pool.

Isabel smoothed her rumpled hair. "You've mussed me all up," she complained. "Why can't we go in? Aunt Francesca and Rose are upstairs."

"Listen, sweetheart. Please be patient with me just a minute, won't you?

I've brought you your engagement ring."

"Oh," cried Isabel, delightedly. "Let me see it!"

"I want to tell you about it first. You remember, don't you, that the first night I came here, you were wearing a big silver pin--a turquoise matrix, set in dull silver?"

"I've forgotten."

"Well, I haven't. Someway, it seemed to suit you as jewels seldom suit anybody, and you had it on the other night when you promised to marry me. Both times you were wearing the spangled gown, and that's why I asked for it to-night, and why I've had your engagement ring made of a turquoise."

Isabel murmured inarticulately, but he went on, heedlessly: "It's made of silver because you're my Silver Girl, the design is all roses because it was in the time of roses, and it's a turquoise for reasons I've told you. Our initials and the date are inside."

Allison slipped it on her finger and struck a match that she might see it plainly. Isabel turned it on her finger listlessly.