“Yes.”

“She has made up her mind not to marry you.”

“Yes.”

“I guessed as much.”  And Roger paused.  “Do you mind my asking questions?

“No—­”

“Are you still in love with her, Allan?”

“I am.”

“And she with you?”

“I think so.”

“Then it’s the same old trouble.”

“Yes.”  And he told a part of what she had said.  As he talked in clear, terse, even tones, Baird’s steady eyes had a tortured light, the look of a man who has almost reached the end of his endurance.  Roger smoked in silence.

“What do you propose to do?”

“Wait,” said Allan, “a few days more.  Then try again.  If I fail I’m through.”  Roger shot a quick look at him.

“I don’t think you’ll fail, my boy—­and what’s more I think I can help you.  This is a large house, Allan—­there’s more in it than you know.  My second point concerns myself.  I’m going to die within a year.”

As Baird turned on him suddenly, Roger grimly smiled and said, “We won’t go into the details, but I’ve been examined lately and I have quite positive knowledge of what I’ve suspected for some time.  So far, I have told no one but you.  And I’m telling you only because of the bearing it has on Deborah.”  Roger leaned forward heavily.  “She’s the one of my daughters who means the most, now that I’m so near the end.  When I die next year that may be all—­I may simply end—­a blank, a grave—­I am not sure.  But I’ve made up my mind above everything else to see Deborah happy before I go.  And I mean to do it by setting her free—­so free I think it will frighten her.”

Roger went on to explain his plan, and they talked together for some time.

* * * * *

Another week had soon gone by.  Bruce still recovered rapidly, and the other sick children were up and about.  Deborah, in the meantime, had barely been in the house at all.  But late on Saturday evening Roger found her in her room.  She was working.  He came behind her.

“What is it, dad?”

“Busy, eh?” He hesitated, and laid his hand on her shoulder with a little affectionate pressure.  “You’ve kept so busy lately,” he said, “I haven’t had time to see anything of you.  How’s your work going?”

“Much better, thanks—­now that the winter is over.”

He questioned her about her schools.  And then after a brief pause,

“Well, daughter,” he said, “it has been a great fight, and I’m proud of you for it.  And if I’ve got anything to say—­” his hand was still on her shoulder, and he felt her tighten suddenly—­“it isn’t by way of criticism—­please be sure of that ahead.  In this damnable war my faith in men has been badly shaken up.  Humanity seems to me still a child—­a child who needs to go to school.  God knows we need men and women like you—­and I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished, I’d be the last man to hold you back.  I only want to help you go on—­by seeing to it that you are free—­from anything which can hinder you.”  He stopped again for a moment.