“There is no perhaps at all. The Smith boy appears to be a very nice young fellow, and remarkably sensible for a young person in this hoity-toity age. From what I can learn, his people, although they do live out West--down in a mine or up on a branch or a ranch or something--are respectable. Why shouldn't he call to see Mary occasionally, and why shouldn't she see him? Goodness gracious! What sort of a world would this be if young people didn't see each other? Don't tell me that you never had any young male acquaintances when you were a girl, Letitia, because I shan't believe you.” Miss Pease straightened in her chair. “It is not likely that I shall make any such preposterous statement,” she snapped. So the “young male acquaintance” called occasionally--not too often--Mrs. Wyeth saw to that; probably not so often as he would have liked; but he did call and the acquaintanceship developed into friendship. That it might develop into something more than friendship no one, except possibly the sentimental Miss Pease, seemed to suspect. Certainly Mary did not, and at this time it is doubtful if Crawford did, either. He liked Mary Lathrop. She was a remarkably pretty girl but, unlike other pretty girls he had known--and as good-looking college football stars are privileged beyond the common herd, he had known at least several--she did not flirt with him, nor look admiringly up into his eyes, nor pronounce his jokes “killingly funny,” nor flatter him in any way. If the jokes WERE funny she laughed a healthy, genuine laugh, but if, as sometimes happened, they were rather feeble, she was quite likely to tell him so. She did not always agree with his views, having views of her own on most subjects, and if he asked her opinion the answer he received was always honest, if not precisely what he expected or hoped. “By George! You're frank, at any rate,” he observed, rather ruefully, after asking her opinion as to a point of conduct and receiving it forthwith. “Didn't you want me to be?” asked Mary. “You asked me what I thought you should have done and I told you.” “Yes, you did. You certainly told me.” “Well, didn't you want me to tell you?” “I don't know that I wanted you to tell me just that.” “But you asked me what I thought, and that is exactly what I think. Don't YOU think it is what you should have done?” Crawford hesitated; then he laughed. “Why yes, confound it, I do,” he admitted. “But I hoped you would tell me that what I did do was right.” “Whether I thought so or not?” “Why--well--er--yes. Honestly now, didn't you know I wanted you to say the other thing?” It was Mary's turn to hesitate; then she, too, laughed. “Why, yes, I suppose--” she began; and finished with, “Yes, I did.” “Then why didn't you say it? Most girls would.” “Perhaps that is why. I judge that most girls of your acquaintance say just about what you want them to. Don't you think it is good for you to be told the truth occasionally?”