“Exactly.  It couldn’t be helped, you see.  It’s the last week of our school year, and there are so many little things that have to be attended to.  It’s simply now or never.”

“Humph!” was Roger’s comment.  “It’s now or never with you,” he thought.  He went down to his dinner, and when he came back he found her exhausted.  In the dim soft light of her room her face looked flushed and feverish, and vaguely he felt she was in a mood where she might listen to reason.  He felt her hot dry hand on his.  Her eyes were closed, she was smiling.

“Tell me the news from the mountains,” she said.  And he gave her the gossip of the farm in a letter he had had from George.  It told of a picnic supper, the first one of the season.  They had had it in the usual place, down by the dam on the river, “with a bonfire—­a perfect peach—­down by the big yellow rock—­the one you call the Elephant.”  As Roger read the letter he could feel his daughter listening, vividly picturing to herself the great dark boulders by the creek, the shadowy firs, the stars above and the cool fresh tang of the mountain night.

“After this little sickness of yours—­and that harum scarum wedding,” he said, “I feel we’re both entitled to a good long rest in mountain air.”

“We’ll have it, too,” she murmured.

“With Edith’s little youngsters.  They’re all the medicine you need.”  He paused for a moment, hesitating.  But it was now or never.  “The only trouble with you,” he said, “is that you’ve let yourself be caught by the same disease which has its grip upon this whole infernal town.  You’re like everyone else, you’re tackling about forty times what you can do.  You’re actually trying not only to teach but to bring ’em all up as your own, three thousand tenement children.  And this is where it gets you.”

Again he halted, frowning.  What next?

“Go on, dear, please,” said Deborah, in demure and even tones.  “This is very interesting.”

“Now then,” he continued, “in this matter of your school.  I wouldn’t ask you to give it up, I’ve already seen too much of it.  But so long as you’ve got it nicely started, why not give somebody else a chance?  One of those assistants of yours, for example—­capable young women, both.  You could stand right behind ’em with help and advice—­”

“Not yet,” was Deborah’s soft reply.  She had turned her head on her pillow and was looking at him affectionately.  “Why not?” he demanded.

“Because it’s not nicely started at all.  There’s nothing brilliant about me, dear—­I’m a plodder, feeling my way along.  And what I have done in the last ten years is just coming to a stage at last where I can really see a chance to make it count for something.  When I feel I’ve done that, say in five years more—­”

“Those five years,” said her father, “may cost you a very heavy price.”  As Deborah faced his troubled regard, her own grew quickly serious.