"I am sorry to hear you say that," he replied. And then there was an awkward silence. Elsie could think of nothing better than to refer to the handkerchief they had left behind. "Will you wait for me till I run and get it?" he asked. "I will go back with you, if you will permit me," she said timidly. "Indeed, I could not ask so much of you as that." "And yet you could about the same as risk your neck to gratify a whim of mine," she said more gratefully than she intended. "Please do not think," he replied earnestly, "that I have been practicing cheap heroics. As I said, I was a country boy, and in my early home thought nothing of doing such things." But even the brief reference to that vanished home caused him to sigh deeply, and Elsie gave him a wistful look of sympathy. For a few moments they walked on in silence. Then Mr. Stanhope turned, and with some hesitation said: "Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after--after last evening. But my better judgment was borne down by invitations so cordial that I hardly knew how to resist them. At the same time I now realize that I should have done so. Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a course only make matters worse. And yet, after receiving so much kindness from your family, more than has blessed me for many long years--for since my dear mother died I have been quite alone in the world--I feel I cannot go away without some assurance or proof that you will forgive me for being such a kill-joy in your holiday." Elsie's vexation with herself now knew no bounds. She stopped in the path, determining that she would clear up matters, cost what it might. "Mr. Stanhope," she said, "will you grant a request that will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that I am heartily ashamed of my foolish course? Will you not spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to retrieve myself from first to last?" His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, "I will only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it." "I do wish it," she said earnestly. "What must you think of me?" (His eyes then expressed much admiration; but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added: "You have noticed at home that they call me 'child'--and indeed, I am little more than one--and now see that I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward you. I have trampled on every principle of hospitality, kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do better. I--" "Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly and unjustly," interrupted Stanhope. "Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, "I'm so sorry for what happened last night. We all might have had such a good time." "Well, then," said Stanhope, demurely, "I suppose I ought to be also."