For a few moments they walked on in silence.  Then Mr. Stanhope turned, and with some hesitation said: 

“Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after—­after last evening.  But my better judgment was borne down by invitations so cordial that I hardly knew how to resist them.  At the same time I now realize that I should have done so.  Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a course only make matters worse.  And yet, after receiving so much kindness from your family, more than has blessed me for many long years—­for since my dear mother died I have been quite alone in the world—­I feel I cannot go away without some assurance or proof that you will forgive me for being such a kill-joy in your holiday.”

Elsie’s vexation with herself now knew no bounds.  She stopped in the path, determining that she would clear up matters, cost what it might.

“Mr. Stanhope,” she said, “will you grant a request that will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that I am heartily ashamed of my foolish course?  Will you not spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to retrieve myself from first to last?”

His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, “I will only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it.”

“I do wish it,” she said earnestly.  “What must you think of me?” (His eyes then expressed much admiration; but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added: 

“You have noticed at home that they call me ’child’—­and indeed, I am little more than one—­and now see that I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward you.  I have trampled on every principle of hospitality, kindness, and good-breeding.  I have no patience with myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do better.  I—­”

“Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly and unjustly,” interrupted Stanhope.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Elsie, “I’m so sorry for what happened last night.  We all might have had such a good time.”

“Well, then,” said Stanhope, demurely, “I suppose I ought to be also.”

“And do you mean to say that you are not?” she asked, turning suddenly upon him.

“Oh, well, certainly, for your sake,” he said with rising color.

“But not for your own?” she asked with almost the naivete of a child.

He turned away with a perplexed laugh and replied:  “Really, Miss Alford, you are worse than the Catechism.”

She looked at him with a half-amused, half-surprised expression, the thought occurring to her for the first time that it might not have been so disagreeable to him after all; and somehow this thought was quite a relief to her.  But she said:  “I thought you would regard me as a hoyden of the worst species.”

“Because you kissed your brother?  I have never for a moment forgotten that it was only your misfortune that I was not he.”