“I don’t know,” said Cynthia, dreamily, but without apparent misgiving.  “That’s Jeff’s lookout.”

“So ’tis.  I guess she won’t make much fuss.  A woman never likes to see her son get married; but you’ve been a kind of daughter to her so long.  Well, I guess that part of it ’ll be all right.  Jackson,” said Whitwell, in a tone of relief, as if turning from an irrelevant matter to something of real importance, “was down here to-night tryin’ to ring up some them spirits from the planet Mars.  Martians, he calls ’em.  His mind’s got to runnin’ a good deal on Mars lately.  I guess it’s this apposition that they talk about that does it.  Mars comin’ so much nearer the earth by a million of miles or so, it stands to reason that he should be more influenced by the minds on it.  I guess it’s a case o’ that telepathy that Mr. Westover tells about.  I judge that if he kept at it before Mars gits off too far again he might make something out of it.  I couldn’t seem to find much sense in what plantchette done to-night; we couldn’t either of us; but she has her spells when you can’t make head or tail of her.  But mebbe she’s just leadin’ up to something, the way she did about that broken shaft when Jeff come home.  We ha’n’t ever made out exactly what she meant by that yet.”

Whitwell paused, and Cynthia seized the advantage of his getting round to Jeff again.  “He wanted to give up going to Harvard this last year, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Jeff did?” asked her father.  “Well, you done a good thing that time, anyway, Cynthy.  His mother ’d never get over it.”

“There’s something else she’s got to get over, and I don’t know how she ever will.  He’s going to give up the law.”

“Give up the law!”

“Yes.  Don’t tease, father!  He says he’s never cared about it, and he wants to keep a hotel.  I thought that I’d ought to tell him how we felt about Jackson’s having a rest and going off somewhere; and he wanted to begin at once.  But I said if he left off the last year at Harvard I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

Whitwell put his hand in his pocket for his knife, and mechanically looked down for a stick to whittle.  In default of any, he scratched his head.  “I guess she’ll make it warm for him.  She’s had her mind set on his studyin’ law so long, ’t she won’t give up in a hurry.  She can’t see that Jackson ain’t fit to help her run the hotel any more—­till he’s had a rest, anyway—­and I believe she thinks her and Frank could run it—­and you.  She’ll make an awful kick,” said Whitwell, solemnly.  “I hope you didn’t encourage him, Cynthy?”

“I should encourage him,” said the girl.  “He’s got the right to shape his own life, and nobody else has got the right to do it; and I should tell his mother so, if she ever said anything to me about it.”

“All right,” said Whitwell.  “I suppose you know what you’re about.”

“I do, father.  Jeff would make a good landlord; he’s got ideas about a hotel, and I can see that they’re the right ones.  He’s been out in the world, and he’s kept his eyes open.  He will make Lion’s Head the best hotel in the mountains.”