“Even then, we wouldn’t be satisfied,” the Colonel returned.  “Who wants all his days to be alike?”

“Nobody.  Still, it’s a bit trying to freeze your nose one day and be obliged to keep all the windows open the next.”

There was a long pause.  The Colonel tapped his fingers restlessly upon the library table.  Allison went over to the open fire and stood with his back to it, clasping his hands behind him.  “What have you been doing all the morning, Dad?”

“Nothing.  Just sitting here, thinking.”

“Pretty hopeless occupation unless you have something in particular to think about.”

“It’s better to have nothing to think about than to be obliged to think of something unpleasant, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Allison responded, smothering a yawn.  “Almost anything is better than being bored.”

“You’re not bored, are you?” asked the Colonel, quickly.

“Far from it, but I have my work.  I was thinking of you.”

“I can work, too,” the Colonel replied.  “I think as soon as the ground thaws out, I’ll make a garden.  A floral catalogue came yesterday and the pictures are very inspiring.”

“Does it give any directions for distinguishing between the flowers and weeds?”

“No,” laughed the Colonel, “but I’ve thought of trying the ingenious plan of the man who pulled up the plants and carefully watered the weeds, expecting the usual contrary results.”

Luncheon was announced and they went out together, shivering at the change in temperature between the library and the dining-room, where there would be no cheerful open fire until the dinner hour.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” queried the Colonel.

“Why, work, I suppose—­at least until I get too tired to work any more.”

“You seem to believe in an eight-hour day.”

Something in the tone gave Allison an inkling of the fact that his father was lonely and restless in the big house.  When they were abroad, he had managed to occupy himself pleasantly while Allison was busy, and, for the first time, the young man wondered whether it had been wise to come back.

The loneliness of the great rooms was evident, if one looked for it, and the silence was literally to be felt, everywhere.  It is difficult for two people to be happy in a large house; they need the cosiness established by walls not too far apart, ceilings not too high, and the necessary furniture not too widely separated.  A single row of books, within easy reach, may hint of companionship not possible to the great bookcase across a large room.

“I think,” said Allison, “that perhaps this house is too large for us.  Why should we need fifteen rooms?”

“We don’t, but what’s the use of moving again just now, when we’re all settled.”

“It’s no trouble to move,” returned the young man.

“It might be, if we did it ourselves.  I fancy that Miss Rose could give us a few pointers on the subject of opening an old house.”