“Not for two years more,” replied Del.

Ellen’s expression suggested that she was debating whether or not to speak some thought which she feared Del might regard as meddlesome.  “When you finally do have to get out,” she said presently, “it’ll be like giving up your own home, won’t it?”

“No,” said Del.  “I hate the place!” A pause, then:  “I wrote Mrs. Dorsey yesterday that we wouldn’t stay but three months longer—­not in any circumstances.”

The old woman’s face brightened.  “I’m mighty glad of that,” she said heartily.  “Then, you’ll have a home of your own at last.”

“Not exactly,” was Del’s reply, in a curious tone.  “The fact is, I’m going to live with Dr. Hargrave.”

Ellen showed her astonishment.  “And old Martha Skeffington!”

“She’s not so difficult, once you get to know her,” replied Del.  “I find that everything depends on the point of view you take in looking at people.  I’ve been getting better acquainted with Dory’s aunt the last few weeks.  I think she has begun to like me.  We’ll get along.”

“Don’t you think you’d better wait till Dory gets back?”

“No,” said Adelaide firmly, a look in her eyes which made her mother say to herself:  “There’s the Ranger in her.”

They drove in silence awhile; then Del, with an effort which brought a bright color to her cheeks, began:  “I want to tell you, mother, that I went to Judge Torrey this morning, and made over to you the income father left me.”

“Whatever did you do that for?” cried Ellen, turning in the seat to stare at her daughter through her glasses.

“I promised Dory I would.  I’ve spent some of the money—­about fifteen hundred dollars—­You see, the house was more expensive than I thought.  But everything’s paid up now.”

“I don’t need it, and don’t want it,” said Ellen.  “And I won’t take it!”

“I promised Dory I would—­before we were married.  He thinks I’ve done it.  I’ve let him think so.  And—­lately—­I’ve been having a sort of house cleaning—­straightening things up—­and I straightened that up, too.”

Ellen Ranger understood.  A long pause, during which she looked lovingly at her daughter’s beautiful face.  At last she said:  “No, there don’t seem to be no other way out of it.”  Then, anxiously, “You ain’t written Dory what you’ve done?”

“No,” replied Del.  “Not yet.”

“Not never!” exclaimed her mother.  “That’s one of the things a body mustn’t ever tell anyone.  You did wrong; you’ve done right—­and it’s all settled and over.  He’d probably understand if you told him.  But he’d never quite trust you the same again—­that’s human nature.”

“But you’d trust me,” objected Del.

“I’m older’n Dory,” replied her mother; “and, besides, I ain’t your husband.  There’s no end of husbands and wives that get into hot water through telling, where it don’t do any earthly good and makes the other one uneasy and unhappy.”