“You can for the asking, almost any time. Are you a very truthful person, my dear? Don't take the trouble to deny it if you are,” she added, at Alice's stare. “You see, I'm not at all conventional and you needn't be. Come! tell the truth for once, at any rate. Are you habitually truthful?” “Yes, I think I am,” said Alice, still staring. “Dan's not,” said his mother quietly. “Oh, see here, now, mother! Don't give me away!” “He'll tell the truth in extremity, of course, and he'll tell it if it's pleasant, always; but if you don't expect much more of him you won't be disappointed; and you can make him of great use.” “You see where I got it, anyway, Alice,” said Dan, laughing across the bed at her. “Yes, you got it from me: I own it. A great part of my life was made up of making life pleasant to others by fibbing. I stopped it when I came here.” “Oh, not altogether, mother!” urged her son. “You mustn't be too hard on yourself.” She ignored his interruption: “You'll find Dan a great convenience with that agreeable habit of his. You can get him to make all your verbal excuses for you (he'll, do it beautifully), and dictate all the thousand and one little lying notes you'll have to write; he won't mind it in the least, and it will save you a great wear-and-tear of conscience.” “Go on, mother, go on,” said Dan, with delighted eyes, that asked of Alice if it were not all perfectly charming. “And you can come in with your habitual truthfulness where Dan wouldn't know what to do, poor fellow. You'll have the moral courage to come right to the point when he would like to shillyshally, and you can be frank while he's trying to think how to make y-e-s spell no.” “Any other little compliments, mother?” suggested Dan. “No,” said Mrs. Mavering; “that's all. I thought I'd better have it off my mind; I knew you'd never get it off yours, and Alice had better know the worst. It is the worst, my dear, and if I talked of him till doomsday I couldn't say any more harm of him. I needn't tell you how sweet he is; you know that, I'm sure; but you can't know yet how gentle and forbearing he is, how patient, how full of kindness to every living soul, how unselfish, how--” She lost her voice. “Oh, come now, mother,” Dan protested huskily. Alice did not say anything; she bent over, without repugnance, and gathered the shadowy shape into her strong young arms, and kissed the wasted face whose unearthly coolness was like the leaf of a flower against her lips. “He never gave me a moment's trouble,” said the mother, “and I'm sure he'll make you happy. How kind of you not to be afraid of me--” “Afraid!” cried the girl, with passionate solemnity. “I shall never feel safe away from you!” The door opened upon the sound of voices, and the others came in.