"Why, he's an awfully clever professor, honey," Margaret answered serenely. "We heard him lecture in Germany this spring, and met him afterwards. I liked him very much. He's tremendously interesting." She tried to keep out of her voice the thrill that shook her at the mere thought of him. Confused pain and pleasure stirred her to the very heart.--He wanted to come to see her, he must have telephoned Mrs. Carr-Boldt and asked to call, or he would not have known that she was at home this week end,--surely that was significant, surely that meant something! The thought was all pleasure, so great a joy and pride indeed that Margaret was conscious of wanting to lay it aside, to think of, dream of, ponder over, when she was alone. But, on the other hand, there was instantly the miserable conviction that he mustn't be allowed to come to Weston, no--no--she couldn't have him see her home and her people on a crowded hot summer Sunday, when the town looked its ugliest, and the children were home from school, and when the scramble to get to church and to safely accomplish the one o'clock dinner exhausted the women of the family. And how could she keep him from coming, what excuse could she give? "Don't you want him to come--is he old and fussy?" asked Rebecca, interestedly. "I'll see," Margaret answered vaguely. "No, he's only thirty-two or four." "And charming!" said Maudie archly. Margaret eyed her with a coolness worthy of Mrs. Carr-Boldt herself, and then turned rather pointedly to Rebecca. "How's Mother, Becky?" "Oh, she's fine!" Rebecca said, absently in her turn. When Maudie left them at the next corner, she said quickly:-- "Mark, did you see where we were when I saw you?" "At the express office--? Yes," Margaret said, surprised. "Well, listen," said Rebecca, reddening. "Don't say anything to Mother about it, will you? She thinks those boys are fresh in there--She don't like me to go in!" "Oh, Beck--then you oughtn't!" Margaret protested. "Well, I wasn't!" Rebecca said uncomfortably. "We went to see if Maudie's racket had come. You won't--will you, Mark?" "Tell Mother--no, I won't," Margaret said, with a long sigh. She looked sideways at Rebecca,--the dainty, fast-forming little figure, the even ripple and curl of her plaited hair, the assured pose of the pretty head. Victoria Carr-Boldt, just Rebecca's age, as a big schoolgirl still, self-conscious and inarticulate, her well-groomed hair in an unbecoming "club," her well-hung skirts unbecomingly short. Margaret had half expected to find Rebecca at the same stage of development. Rebecca was cheerful now, the promise exacted, and cheerfully observed:-- "Dad didn't get his raise--isn't that the limit?"