Some new magazines had come in the afternoon mail
and lay on the library table. He fingered the paper knife absently as he
tore off the outer wrappings and threw them into the fire.
"I believe I'll go up and work for a couple of hours," said Allison,
"and then we'll go out for a walk."
"All right, lad. I'll be ready."
Even after the strains of the violin sounded faintly from upstairs,
accompanied by a rhythmic tread as Allison walked to and fro, Colonel
Kent did not begin to cut the leaves.
Instead, he sat gazing into the fire, thinking. Quite unconsciously, for
years, he had been carrying a heavy burden--the fear that Allison would
marry and that his marriage would bring separation. Now he was greatly
reassured. "And yet," he thought, "there's no telling what a woman may
do."
The sense that his work was done still haunted him, and, resolutely, he
tried to push it aside. "While there's life, there's work," he said to
himself. He knew, however, as he had not known before, that Allison was
past the need of his father, except for companionship.
The old house seemed familiar, yet as though it belonged to another
life.
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