“I don’t believe she has.”

“It’s the one thing I can’t very well make up my mind to speak to her about.  I don’t know what she would do.”  He did not say, “If she lost Jackson,” but Cynthia knew he meant that, and they were both silent.  “Of course,” he went on, “I know that she places a great deal of dependence upon you, but Jackson’s her main stay.  He’s a good man, and he’s a good son.  I wish I’d always been half as good.”

Cynthia did not protest against his self-reproach as he possibly hoped she would.  She said:  “I think Jackson’s got a very good mind.  He reads a great deal, and he’s thought a great deal, and when it comes to talking, I never heard any one express themselves better.  The other night, we were out looking at the stars—­I came part of the way home with him; I didn’t like to let him go alone, he seemed so feeble and he got to showing me Mars.  He thinks it’s inhabited, and he’s read all that the astronomers say about it, and the seas and the canals that they’ve found on it.  He spoke very beautifully about the other life, and then he spoke about death.”  Cynthia’s voice broke, and she pulled her handkerchief out of her belt, and put it to her eyes.  Jeff’s heart melted in him at the sight; he felt a tender affection for her, very unlike the gross content he had enjoyed in her presence before, and he put his arm round her again, but this time almost unconsciously, and drew her toward him.  She did not repel him; she even allowed her head to rest a moment on his shoulder; though she quickly lifted it, and drew herself away, not resentfully, it seemed, but for her greater freedom in talking.

“I don’t believe he’s going to die,” Jeff said, consolingly, more as if it were her brother than his that he meant.  “But he’s a very sick man, and he’s got to knock off and go somewhere.  It won’t do for him to pass another winter here.  He must go to California, or Colorado; they’d be glad to have him there, either of them; or he can go to Florida, or over to Italy.  It won’t matter how long he stays—­”

“What are you talking about, Jeff Durgin?” Cynthia demanded, severely.”  What would your mother do?  What would she do this winter?”

“That brings me to something, Cynthia,” said Jeff, “and I don’t want you to say anything till I’ve got through.  I guess I could help mother run the place as well as Jackson, and I could stay here next winter.”

“You?”

“Now, you let me talk!  My mind’s made up about one thing:  I’m not going to be a lawyer.  I don’t want to go back to Harvard.  I’m going to keep a hotel, and, if I don’t keep one here at Lion’s Head, I’m going to keep it somewhere else.”

“Have you told your mother?”

“Not yet:  I wanted to hear what you would say first.”

“I?  Oh, I haven’t got anything to do with it,” said Cynthia.

“Yes, you have!  You’ve got everything to do with it, if you’ll say one thing first.  Cynthia, you know how I feel about you.  It’s been so ever since we were boy and girl here.  I want you to promise to marry me.  Will you?”