Mrs. Carroll stared at me. “Nonsense, child,” she answered. “I don’t know what can have put such an idea into your head!” “_He_ did,” I muttered. “There are times when I think he may be right,” I went on dejectedly, “that he must surely have some reason. I don’t know.... He is always thinking about my mother.” Mrs. Carroll had been on the point of speaking, but at this she paused. “I know nothing about her,” I pursued. “I can’t remember her at all, and there is not even a photograph at home. What _is_ there? Do _you_ know nothing?” Mrs. Carroll hesitated. “Nothing,” she then said. “Nothing more than you know yourself, Peter dear,” she added. “You have never heard? I should like to go to see her.” “Yes?” There was a note of doubt in this monosyllable which made me look up. “I should like to judge for myself,” I continued, impetuously. But the question was, or to Mrs. Carroll appeared to be, an impossible one for us to discuss together, and she made no reply. “And how do you like your school?” she asked presently, holding up a magazine between her face and the blazing fire. “Tell me all about it――about all your friends and everything you do.” I began to tell her, giving, as I went along a kind of rough, rambling account of my ordinary day. I told of how I had come to know Owen; how the real thief had never been discovered. I described Owen to her; I said he was the only friend I had made. I told her of the party last night, leaving out the episode of Elsie. “It makes such a difference when you find somebody who is more or less like yourself.” “I don’t think he is very like me,” I answered. “I don’t think we’re a bit alike, but――” I tried to puzzle it out: “I suppose we must have some things in common.” “Tell me about him,” she encouraged me. “He’s a very good chap,” I said lamely. Then, as this didn’t in the least express my meaning: “I mean he’s very straight, and decent, and all that. He’s not like anybody else.” “What is the difference?” “Well, for one thing, he’s awfully serious. I don’t mean dull――but serious about what things really mean and that sort of thing.” “Is he clever?” “I don’t know. He’s very simple.” “And George――isn’t that his name? the name of your cousin?――what is _he_ like? Are you friends with him?” “Oh, yes.” “Tell me about George too.” “There’s nothing to tell. He’s in business. You wouldn’t much care for him.” “Why not? Don’t you?” “Yes, very well.” And it suddenly struck me as strange that I did so, that I did not positively detest him. “You do not seem enthusiastic. Is he not nice?” “Oh, he’s all right. He’s nice enough, I daresay――just as nice as I am.” “Why won’t you tell me what is the matter, Peter?” “There is nothing.” “You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?” “I don’t know.”