“Oh!” ejaculated Hollis’ mother.

She did not make plans for her children as the other mother did.

The two old ladies crossed the field toward the substantial white farmhouse that overlooked the little cottage, and the children, whose birthday it was, walked hand in hand through the yard to the footpath along the road.

“Must you keep on writing to Hollis?” he asked.

“I suppose so.  Why not?  It is my turn to write now.”

“That’s all nonsense.”

“What is?  Writing in one’s turn?”

“I don’t see why you need write at all.”

“Don’t you remember I promised before you came?”

“But I’ve come now,” he replied in a tone intended to be very convincing.

“His mother would miss it, if I didn’t write; she thinks she can’t write letters.  And I like his letters,” she added frankly.

“I suppose you do.  I suppose you like them better than mine,” with an assertion hardly a question in his voice.

“They are so different.  His life is so different from yours.  But he is shy, as shy as a girl, and does not tell me all the things you do.  Your letters are more interesting, but he is more interesting—­as a study.  You are a lesson that I have learned, but I have scarcely begun to learn him.”

“That is very cold blooded when you are talking about human beings.”

“My brain was talking then.”

“Suppose you let your heart speak.”

“My heart hasn’t anything to say; it is not developed yet.”

“I don’t believe it,” he answered angrily.

“Then you must find it out for yourself.  Morris, I don’t want to be in love with anybody, if that’s what you mean.  I love you dearly, but I am not in love with you or with anybody.”

“You don’t know the difference,” he said quickly.

“How do you know the difference?  Did you learn it before I was born?”

“I love my mother, but I am in love with you; that’s the difference.”

“Then I don’t know the difference—­and I do.  I love my dear father and Mr. Holmes and you,—­not all alike, but I need you all at different times—­”

“And Hollis,” he persisted.

“I do not know him,” she insisted.  “I have nothing to say about that.  Morris, I want to go with Miss Prudence and study; I don’t want to be a housekeeper and have a husband, like Linnet!  I have so much to learn; I am eager for everything.  You see you are older than I am.”

“Yes,” he said, disappointedly, “you are only a little girl yet.  Or you are growing up to be a Woman’s Rights Woman, and to think a ‘career’ is better than a home and a man who is no better than other men to love you and protect you and provide for you.”

“You know that is not true,” she answered quietly; “but I have been looking forward so long to going to school.”

“And living with Miss Prudence and becoming like her!”