“Don’t say Amy to me, I beg of you!” I exclaimed.

“Why not?” she persisted.  “She is very pretty.  She is as good as she can be.  She is rich.  And if she were your wife you would want her to talk more than she does, you would be so glad to listen to her.  I might say more about Amy, but I won’t.”

“Would it be very impolite,” said I, “if I whistled?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but you needn’t do it.  I will consider it done.  Now I will speak of Bertha Putney.  I was bound to mention Amy first, because she is my dear friend, but Miss Putney is a grand girl.  And I do not mind telling you that she takes a great interest in you.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I have seen her since you were here—­she lunched with us.  As soon as she heard your name mentioned—­and that was bound to happen, for this family has been talking about you ever since they first knew you—­she began to ask questions.  Of course the bear came up, and she wanted to know every blessed thing that happened.  But when she found out that you got the bear at the Holly Sprig her manner changed, and she talked no more about you at the table.

“But in the afternoon she had a great deal to say to me.  I did not know exactly what she was driving at, and I may have told her too much.  We said a great many things—­some of which I remember and some I do not—­but I am sure that I never knew a woman to take more interest in a man than she takes in you.  So it is my opinion that if you would stop at the Putneys’ on your way home you might do a great deal to help you get rid of the trouble you are now in.  It makes me feel something like a spy in a camp to talk this way, but I told you I was your friend, and I am going to be one.  Spies are all right when they are loyal to their own side.”

I was very glad to have such a girl on my side, but this did not seem to be a very good time to talk about the advantages of a call upon Miss Putney.

In spite of all the entreaties of the Larramie family, I persisted in my intention of going on to Walford the next morning, and, in reply to their assurances that I would find it dreadfully dull in that little village during the rest of my vacation, I told them that I should be very much occupied and should have no time to be dull.  I was going seriously to work to prepare myself for my profession.  For a year or two I had been deferring this important matter, waiting until I had laid by enough money to enable me to give up school-teaching and to apply myself entirely to the studies which would be necessary.  All this would give me enough to do, and vacation was the time in which I ought to do it.  The distractions of the school session were very much in the way of a proper contemplation of my own affairs.

“That sounds very well,” said Miss Edith, when there was no one by, “but if you cannot get the Holly Sprig Inn out of your mind, I do not believe you will do very much ‘proper contemplation.’  Take my advice and stop at the Putneys’.  It can do you no harm, and it might help to free your mind of distractions a great deal worse than those of the school.”