She seemed to refer the plan to him, and he said it was capital. In fact, he did like the notion of a diary; that sort of historical view would involve less danger of precipitating a discussion of the two schemes of life for the future. “It's awfully kind of you, Alice, to propose such a thing, and you mustn't make it a burden. Any sort of little sketchy record will do; mother can read between the lines, you know.” “It won't be a burden,” said the girl tenderly. “I shall seem to be doing it for your mother, but I know I shall be doing it for you. I do everything for you. Do you think it's right?” “Oh; it must be,” said Dan, laughing. “It's so pleasant.” “Oh,” said the girl gloomily; “that's what makes me doubt it.” XLII. Eunice Mavering acknowledged Alice's first letter. She said that her mother read it aloud to them all, and had been delighted with the good account she gave of Dan, and fascinated with all the story of their daily doings and sayings. She wished Eunice to tell Alice how fully she appreciated her thoughtfulness of a sick old woman, and that she was going to write herself and thank her. But Eunice added that Alice must not be surprised if her mother was not very prompt in this, and she sent messages from all the family, affectionate for Alice, and polite for her father and mother. Alice showed Dan the letter, and he seemed to find nothing noticeable in it. “She says your mother will write later,” Alice suggested. “Yes. You ought to feel very much complimented by that. Mother's autographs are pretty uncommon,” he said, smiling. “Why, doesn't she write? Can't she? Does it tire her?” asked Alice. “Oh yes, she can write, but she hates to. She gets Eunice or Minnie to write usually.” “Dan,” cried Alice intensely, “why didn't you tell me?” “Why, I thought you knew it,” he explained easily. “She likes to read, and likes to talk, but it bores her to write. I don't suppose I get more than two or three pencil scratches from her in the course of a year. She makes the girls write. But you needn't mind her not writing. You may be sure she's glad of your letters.” “It makes me seem very presumptuous to be writing to her when there's no chance of her answering,” Alice grieved. “It's as if I had passed over your sisters' heads. I ought to have written to them.” “Oh, well, you can do that now,” said Dan soothingly. “No. No, I can't do it now. It would be ridiculous.” She was silent, and presently she asked, “Is there anything else about your mother that I ought to know?” She looked at him with a sort of impending discipline in her eyes which he had learned to dread; it meant such a long course of things, such a very great variety of atonement and expiation for him, that he could not bring himself to confront it steadily. His heart gave a feeble leap; he would have gladly told her all that was in it, and he meant to do so at the right time, but this did not seem the moment. “I can't say that there is,” he answered coldly.