He tried boyishly to dignify the situation when he lifted his face, and he said, “I didn’t mean to come boohooing to you in this way, and I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I know, Dan; but you’ve been wrought up, and I don’t wonder.  You mustn’t mind your father and your sisters.  Of course, they’re rather surprised, and they don’t like your taking yourself from them—­we, none of us do.”

At these honest words Dan tried to become honest too.  At least he dropped his pretence of dignity, and became as a little child in his simple greed for sympathy.  “But it isn’t necessarily that; is it, mother?”

“Yes, it’s all that, Dan; and it’s all right, because it’s that.  We don’t like it, but our not liking it has nothing to do with its being right or wrong.”

“I supposed that father would have been pleased, anyway; for he has seen her, and—­and.  Of course the girls haven’t, but I think they might have trusted my judgment a little.  I’m not quite a fool.”

His mother smiled.  “Oh, it isn’t a question of the wisdom of your choice; it’s the unexpectedness.  We all saw that you were very unhappy when you were here before, and we supposed it had gone wrong.”

“It had, mother,” said Dan.  “She refused me at Campobello.  But it was a misunderstanding, and as soon as we met—­”

“I knew you had met again, and what you had come home for, and I told your father so, when he came to say you were here.”

“Did you, mother?” he asked, charmed at her having guessed that.

“Yes.  She must be a good girl to send you straight home to tell us.”

“You knew I wouldn’t have thought of that myself,” said Dan joyously.  “I wanted to write; I thought that would do just as well.  I hated to leave her, but she made me come.  She is the best, and the wisest, and the most unselfish—­O mother, I can’t tell you about her!  You must see her.  You can’t realise her till you see her, mother.  You’ll like each other, I’m sure of that.  You’re just alike.”  It seemed to Dan that they were exactly alike.

“Then perhaps we sha’n’t,” suggested his mother.  “Let me see her picture.”

“How did you know I had it?  If it hadn’t been for her, I shouldn’t have brought any.  She put it into my pocket just as I was leaving.  She said you would all want to see what she looked like.”

He had taken it out of his pocket, and he held it, smiling fondly upon it.  Alice seemed to smile back at him.  He had lost her in the reluctance of his father and sisters; and now his mother—­it was his mother who had given her to him again.  He thought how tenderly he loved his mother.

When he could yield her the photograph, she looked long and silently at it.  “She has a great deal of character, Dan.”