“No, of course she isn’t!” the girl said, after a pause.  “I know Aus.  But let her take him, and try.  Then, if he comes back, she can’t blame me.  And—­” She laughed.  “This is a funny thing,” she said, “for she doesn’t like me.  But I like her.  I have no mother and no aunts, you know, and I like having an old lady ’round.  I always wanted some one to stay with me, and perhaps, if Aus comes back some day, she’ll get to liking me, too.  She’ll remember,” her tone grew a little wistful, “that I couldn’t help his loving me!  And besides—­ “and the tone was suddenly confident again—­“I am good—­as good as his sister!  And I’m learning things.  I learn something new from her every day!  And I’d like to feel that he went away from me—­and had to come back!”

“Don’t you be a fool,” cautioned the doctor.  “A feller gets among his friends for a year or two, and where are ye?  Minnie Ferguson’s feller never come back to her and she was a real pretty, good girl, too.”

“Oh, I think he’ll come back,” the girl said softly, as if to herself.

“I only hope, if he don’t show up on the minute, you’ll marry somebody else so quick it’ll make her head spin!” said the doctor, fervently.  Manzanita laughed out, and the sound of it made Mrs. Phelps wince, and shut her eyes.

“Maybe I will!” the girl said hardily.  “You’ll suggest his taking her home, anyway, won’t you, Doc’ Jim?” she asked.

“Well, durn it, I’d jest as soon,” agreed the doctor.  “I don’t know as you’re so crazy about him!”

“And you’ll stay to dinner?” Manzanita instantly changed the subject.  “There’s ducks.  Of course the season’s over, but a string of them came up to Jose and Marty, and pushed themselves against their guns—­you know how it is.”

“Sure, I’ll stay,” said the doctor.  “Go see if she’s awake, Manz’ita, that’s a good girl.  If she ain’t—­I’ll walk up to the mine for a spell.”

So Manzanita tiptoed to the door of Mrs. Phelps’s room and noiselessly opened it, and smiled when she saw the invalid’s open eyes.

“Well, have a nice nap?” she asked, coming to put a daughterly little hand over the older woman’s hand.  “Want more light?  Your books have come.”

“I’m much better, dear,” said Mrs. Phelps.  The Boston woman’s tone would always be incisive, her words clear.  But she kept Manzanita’s hand.  “I think I will get up for dinner.  I’ve been lying here thinking that I’ve wasted quite enough time, if we are to have a wedding here before I go home—­”

Manzanita stared at her.  Then she knelt down beside the bed and began to cry.

On a certain Thursday afternoon more than a year later, Mrs. Phelps happened to be alone in her daughter’s Boston home.  Cornelia was attending the regular meeting of a small informal club whose reason for being was the study of American composers.  Mrs. Phelps might have attended this, too, or she might have gone to several other club meetings, or she might have been playing cards, or making calls, but she had been a little bit out of humor with all these things of late, and hence was alone in the great, silent house.  The rain was falling heavily outside, and in the library there was a great coal fire.  Now and then a noiseless maid came in and replenished it.