“Two Irishmen don’t make an army,” he laughed, “though I’ll admit that, if angry, they would make a formidable force.  I helped to dig for a while this morning, but it didn’t seem to agree with me, so I quit.  My work seems to be done,” he continued, with a sigh.

“No, it isn’t,” she returned, sharply.  “There’s work to be done, but whether you or I or both together can do it, is extremely doubtful.”

“What do you mean, Francesca?”

Madame leaned toward him confidentially.  “Richard,” she said, in a low tone, “has it ever occurred to you that Allison might marry?”

A shadow crossed his face, then vanished in a smile.  “Yes.  Why?”

“Have you ever seen a woman you would be willing for him to marry?”

“Only one.”

“And she—?”

“Rose,” said the Colonel, softly.  “Your Rose.”

“I’ve felt that way, too,” whispered Madame.  There was silence for the space of a heart-beat, then she cried out sharply:  “But it isn’t Rose—­ it’s Isabel!”

“What?” he cried, startled for once out of his usual calm.  “That child?”

“‘That child’ is past twenty, and he is only ten years older.  There was fifteen years’ difference between you and—­” Madame forebore to speak the name of the dead and beloved wife.

Colonel Kent turned his dim blue eyes toward the hills.  Behind them the sun was setting, and he could guess that the gold of the Spring afternoon was scattered like star dust over the little sunken grave.  He left Madame and went to the end of the veranda, where he stood for a few moments, facing the West.  Then he came back.

“Francesca,” he said, slowly, “you and I are on the Western slope and have been for a long time.  The Valley of the Shadow lies at the foot of the hill and the descent is almost made.  But the boy is young, and most of the journey lies before him.  You chose for yourself, and so did I. Shall we not grant him the same right?”

“Yes, but Rose—­”

“Rose,” interrupted the Colonel, “is too good for any man—­even my own son, though, as I said before, she is the only woman I would willingly see him marry.  You stand almost in his mother’s place to him, but neither you nor I can shield him now.  We must try to remember that his life is his—­to make or mar.”

“I know,” she sighed, “I’ve thought it all out.”

“Besides,” he went on, “what could we do?  Separation wouldn’t last long, if he wants her, and talking would only alienate him from us.  Perhaps you could bear it, but I—­I couldn’t.”

“Nor I,” she returned, quickly.  “When we come to the sundown road, we need all the love we have managed to take with us from the summit of the hill.  I hadn’t meant to say anything to anyone,” she went on, in a changed tone, “but my heart was full, and you are—­”

“Your best friend, Francesca, as you are mine.  It seems to take a lifetime for us to learn that wisdom consists largely in a graceful acceptance of things that do not immediately concern us.”