“To begin with,” he said, “I understand you’re not going to marry Allan Baird.”  She stirred slightly: 

“Did he tell you so?”

“Yes—­I asked him,” Roger replied.  “I had Allan here a few nights ago, and he told me you had decided to give up your happiness for the sake of all those children in that big family of yours.  You felt you must keep yourself free for them.  Very well, if that is your decision I propose to clear the way.”  She looked intently up at his face.  “You’re not free now,” he continued.  “We have Edith and her children here.  And I’m growing old—­that has got to be thought of—­I don’t want to leave them on your hands.  So as soon as the baby is well enough, I’m going to move them up to the mountains—­not only for the summer—­they are to stay the whole year ’round.  From this time on they’re to make it their home.”

“Father!  But they can’t do that!  Think of the winters!” Deborah cried.

“It’s already settled,” he answered.  “I’ve talked to Edith and she has agreed.  She has always loved the farm, and it will be good for her children.  In the meantime I’ve been talking to George.  ‘George,’ I told him, ’I’m going to talk to you, man to man, about a man’s job I want you to tackle.’”

“The farm?  But, dearie!  He’s only a boy!”

“He’s nearly seventeen,” said Roger, “and a young moose for his age.  And old Dave Royce will still be there.  It’s the work George has been dreaming about ever since he was a child.  You should have seen how he was thrilled by the scheme.  I told him we’d spend the summer together up there laying all our plans, investing our money carefully to make every dollar count.”

“What money?” Deborah sharply asked.  But her father was talking steadily on: 

“We already have a fine lot of cattle.  We’ll add to it and enlarge the barn and put in some new equipment.  In short, we’ll put it in fine shape, make it a first class dairy farm.  ‘And then, George,’ I said to him, ’I’m going to turn it over to you.  I shall give the farm to your mother, and the rest of the money I have I mean to invest in her name down here, so that she’ll have a small income until you can make your dairy pay.’”

“What money are you speaking of?” Deborah’s voice was thick and hard, her sensitive lips were parted and she was breathing quickly.

“I’ve sold the house,” he told her.  Convulsively she gripped his arms: 

“Then tell me where you mean to live!”

“I’m not going to live—­I’m going to die—­very soon—­I have definite knowledge.”

Without speaking Deborah rose; her face went white.  Her father kept tight hold of her hands, and he felt them trembling, growing cold.

“You’re soon to be free of everyone,” he continued painfully.  “I know this is hurting you, but I see so plain, so plain, my child, just what it is I’ve got to do.  I’m trying to clear the way for you to make a simple definite choice—­a choice which is going to settle your life one way or the other.  I want to make sure you see what you’re doing.  Because you mean so much to me.  We’re flesh and blood—­eh, my daughter?—­and in this family of ours we’ve been the closest ones of all!” She seemed to sway a little.