“I wondered where you were,” Mrs. Mayfield said, as she held the gate ajar for her daughter to pass through. “You know I can't keep from being uneasy since your poor uncle's death.” “I'm not afraid,” Ethel smiled. She noticed that her mother had folded the letter tightly in her hand and seemed disinclined to refer to it. “Who is your letter from?” the girl questioned, as they walked across the lawn toward the house. “Guess,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled, still holding the letter tightly. “I can't imagine,” Ethel answered, abstractedly, for she was unable to detach herself from the recital she had just heard. Mrs. Mayfield paused, looked up at the threatening cloud, and then answered, “It is from Mr. Peterson.” “Oh!” Ethel avoided her mother's fixed stare. “I owe him a letter.” “From this, I judge that you owe him several,” Mrs. Mayfield answered in a significant tone. “Ethel, I am afraid you are not treating him quite fairly.” “Fairly! Why do you say that, mother?” Ethel showed some little vexation. Touches of red appeared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed. “Because you haven't answered his recent letters, for one thing,” was the reply. “You know, daughter, that I have never tried, in the slightest, to influence you in this matter, and--” “This _matter!_” A rippling and yet a somewhat forced laugh fell from the girl's curling lips. “You speak as if you were referring to some business transaction.” '“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled good-naturedly. “Before we came here this summer, while Mr. Peterson was so attentive to you in Atlanta, I told you that he had plainly given me to understand that he was in love with you, and wished to pay his addresses in the most serious and respectful way.” “Well?” Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “I have let him come to see me oftener, really, than any of my other friends, and--” “But that isn't all he wants, and you are well aware of it,” the mother urged. “He says you don't write to him as freely and openly as you once did--he has acted very considerately, I think. Owing to your uncle's death he did not like to intrude, but now he can't really understand you, and is naturally disturbed.” “So he has written to _you?_” Ethel said, crisply, almost resentfully. “Yes, he has written to me. I am not going to show you his letter. The poor fellow is deeply worried. The truth is, as he says, that most of your set down home look on you--” “As his property, I know,” Ethel flashed forth. “Some men are apt to allow a report like that to get circulated. The last time he was here he dropped half a dozen remarks which showed that he had no other thought than that I was quite carried away with him.”