“O, Eric,” cried Mae, “that is like old times again,” and a tear splattered down into the big hand. “What, crying, Mae?” “No, dear--that is, yes. I believe I am a little bit homesick. I wish I could go back behind my teens again. Do you remember the summer that I was twelve--that summer up by the lake? I wish you and I could paddle around in one of the old flat-bottomed tubs once more, don’t you, Eric? We’d go for lilies and fish for minnows--that is, we’d fish for perch and catch the minnows--and talk about when you should go to college and pull in the race, and I should wear a long dress and learn all the college tunes to sing with you and your Yale friends. Do you remember, Eric? And now, O dear me, you lost your race, and I hate my long gowns. O--my--dear--brother--do you like it all as well as you thought you would?” “Why, Mae, you poor little tot, you’re sentimental--for you. Yes, I like the future as well as I always did. I never gave much for the present, at any rate.” “But I did, Eric; I always did, till just now, and now I hate it, and I’m afraid of the future, and I’d like to grow backwards, and instead, in a month, I’ll have another birth-day, and go into those dreadful twenties.” Then Mae was quiet a moment. “Eric, I was sentimental,” she said, after a pause. “Really, I do like the future very much. I quite forgot how much for the moment.” “You’re a strange child, indeed,” replied Eric, the puzzled. “Your words are like lightning. I had just got melted down and ready to reply to your reminiscences by lots of others, and here you are all jolly and matter-of-fact again. I was growing so dreadfully unselfish that I should have insisted on staying home with you this evening to cheer you up a bit.” “And give up the mocoletti! Why, Eric! I shouldn’t have known how to take such an offer. No, no, trot off and array yourself, and you may come back and say good-bye.” “I must say good-bye now, dear, for I dine at the Costanzi with the girls and their aunt.” “Now, just now, Eric?” “Why yes, Mae. You are getting blue again, aren’t you? Getting ready for Ash Wednesday to-morrow?” “Oh, no, no, dear. Kiss me, Eric, again. You’re a good, dear boy. No; I didn’t cry that drop at all. Good-bye; and to-morrow is Ash Wednesday. But we don’t sorrow or fast in Paradise, I suppose.” CHAPTER XI.