“I don’t know.  I believe she is—­interested in everything,” faltered Alice.  She wanted to add, “And so you appear to be also.”

“So few persons care for education these days,” pursued Mrs. Nailor, in a little chime.  “And that young man is such a nice fellow?  Has he a good school?  I hear you were there?  You are interested in schools, too?” She nodded like a little Japanese toy-baby.

“I am sure I don’t know.  Yes; I think he has.  Why don’t you go?” asked the girl at random.

“Oh, I have not been invited.”  Mrs. Nailor smiled amiably.  “Perhaps, you will let me go with you sometime?”

Alice escaped, and ran up-stairs, though she was eager to go out on the porch.  However, it would serve him right to punish him by staying away until she was sent for, and she could not go with Mrs. Nailor’s cat-eyes on her.

She found her mother seated at a table writing busily.  Mrs. Yorke only glanced up and said, “So you are back?  Hope you had a pleasant time?” and went on writing.

Alice gazed at her with a startled look in her eyes.  She had such a serious expression on her face.

“What are you doing?” She tried to speak as indifferently as she could.

“Writing to your father.”  The pen went on busily.

“What is the matter?  Is papa ill?  Has anything happened?”

“No; nothing has happened.  I am writing to say we shall be home the last of the week.”

“Going away!”

“Yes; don’t you think we have been here long enough?  We only expected to stay until the last of March, and here it is almost May.”

“But what is the matter?  Why have you made up your mind so suddenly?  Mamma, you are so secret!  I am sure something is the matter.  Is papa not well?” She crossed over and stood by her mother.

Mrs. Yorke finished a word and paused a moment, with the end of her silver penholder against her teeth.

“Alice,” she said reflectively, “I have something I want to say to you, and I have a mind to say it now.  I think I ought to speak to you very frankly.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, do, mamma; for I’m dying to know what has happened.”  She seated herself on the side of a chair for support.  Her face was almost white.

“Alice—­”

“Yes, mamma.”  Her politeness was ominous.

“Alice, I have had a talk with that young man—­”

Alice’s face flushed suddenly.

“What young man?” she asked, as though the Ridge Springs were thronged with young men behind every bush.

“That young man—­Mr. Keith,” firmly.

“Oh!” said Alice.  “With Mr. Keith?  Yes, mamma?” Her color was changing quickly now.

“Yes, I have had a quite—­a very extraordinary conversation with Mr. Keith.”  As Mrs. Yorke drifted again into reflection, Alice was compelled to ask: 

“What about, mamma?”

“About you.”

“About me?  What about me?” Her face was belying her assumed innocence.