“I’m willing to,” answered the Colonel, shortly.  “I called on her this afternoon,” he added, after a brief pause.

Allison’s face illumined.  “Was she there?  Did you see her?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t she the loveliest thing that was ever made?”

“I’m not prepared to go as far as that,” smiled the Colonel, “but she is certainly a very pretty girl.”

“She’s beautiful,” returned Allison, with deep conviction.

The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.

“Just think, Dad,” Allison was saying, “how lovely she’ll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right.”

The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat.  “Not always, lad,” he said, kindly, “but perhaps, sometimes—­as a guest.”

Allison’s fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate.  “Dad!  What do you mean?”

“No house is large enough for two families,” repeated the Colonel, with an unconscious, parrot-like accent.

“Why, Dad!  We’ve always stood together—­surely you won’t desert me now?”

The old man’s eyes softened with mist.  He could not trust himself to meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.

“I can’t understand,” Allison went on, doubtfully.  “Is it possible—­ could she-did-Isabel—?”

“No” said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes.  “She didn’t!”

“Of course she didn’t,” returned Allison, fully satisfied.  “She couldn’t—­she’s not that kind.  What a brute I was even to think it!  But why, Dad?  Please tell me why!”

“Francesca asked me this afternoon if I would come to her and Rose, after the—­afterwards, you know, and I promised.”

“If you promised, I suppose that settles it,” remarked Allison, gloomily, “but I wish you hadn’t.  I can understand that they would want you, too, for of course they’ll be desperately lonely after Isabel goes away.”

A certain peace crept into the old man’s sore heart.  Surely there was something to live for still.

“I hope you didn’t tell Aunt Francesca you’d stay there always,” Allison was saying, anxiously.

“No,” answered the Colonel, with a smile; “there was no limit specified.”

“Then we’ll consider it only a visit and a short one at that—­just until they get a little used to Isabel’s being away.  This is your rightful place, Dad, and Isabel and I both want you—­don’t ever forget that!”

When Allison had gone in search of his beloved, the Colonel sat on the veranda alone, accustomed, now, to evenings spent thus.  His garden promised well, he thought, having produced two or three sickly roses in the very first season.  The shrubs and trees that had survived ten years of neglect had been pruned and tied and would doubtless do well next year, if Isabel—­

“I hope he’ll never find out,” the Colonel said to himself.  Then he remembered that, for the first time in his life, he had lied to his son, and took occasion to observe the highly spectacular effect of an untruth from an habitually truthful person.