“I don’t intend to have young Sanford step in and upset my plans,” Gorham insisted.

“You had better go slowly, dear, and let her work out her own future, guiding her quietly without her realizing it.  Allen will have to win her respect before you need to consider him as a possible obstacle.  Their interest in each other just now is so natural and unaffected that I should be sorry to disturb it.  Each one can be a real help to the other without any danger of the complication which you fear.”

“They are both at the inflammable age,” persisted Gorham; “it is just as well to guard against uncertainties.”

Eleanor smiled.  “We are all inconsistent, aren’t we, dear?  We were so exasperated with Stephen Sanford because he would not allow Allen to express his own individuality, yet we are almost ready to interfere with the development of Alice’s.  All seems to be progressing exactly as you wish it.  The child’s admiration for Mr. Covington is supreme, and with Alice that is the first step.  Then their daily intercourse ought to give ample opportunity for settling the question your way.  But if it proved finally that her happiness was dependent upon her marrying Allen, or any other one of her admirers, you would be the first to urge it—­wouldn’t you, dear?”

“Of course I should,” Gorham admitted; “but I can’t consider any alternative.  Admiration and respect are all very well as far as they go, but they are no guarantee when a good-looking, impulsive youngster is concerned.”

“I know, dear,” Eleanor continued, quietly.  “A man came into my life once whom I admired and respected with all my strength, yet I never loved him.”

Gorham paused abruptly and looked at his wife with the same strange expression which she occasionally noted upon his face.

“You never loved him?” he repeated.

“No, dear.  He was a noble character, and he once did me a great service, but I never loved him.  With Alice my one fear is that she may mistake respect for affection, and with her nature such an error would ruin her life.”

“Some time you must tell me about him,” Gorham insisted, still reverting to her chance remark.

Eleanor’s face sobered.  “Some time I will, but not now.  It is all a part of that memory I am ever trying to forget—­a bright lining to that heavy cloud.  Some time, dear, but not now.”

“Suppose I have a little chat with Alice before dinner,” Gorham said, changing the subject abruptly.  “The child must not think that I am neglecting her.  I must make her realize how proud I am of her.”

“Do,” Eleanor replied.  “I will follow you in a few moments.”  She sank upon a convenient seat as her husband disappeared indoors.  Here, half an hour later, still communing with the early twilight as it deepened into dusk, Alice and her father found her, when they came out from the house, arm in arm.  Who shall say what spring the words unconsciously released, conjuring up before her unwilling mental vision a picture of the years gone by?  Who shall explain the apprehensiveness which came unbidden, causing known certainties to be forgotten because of the disquieting questionings which demanded an unanswerable reply.