Nevertheless, she was more concerned with “the problem of Dale” than she would have admitted. Dale, at her age, with her charm and beauty—_why, she ought to behave as if she were walking on air_, thought her aunt worriedly. _And instead she acts more as if she were walking on pins and needles. She seems to like being here—I know she likes me—I’m pretty sure she’s just as pleased to get a little holiday from Sally and Harry—she amuses herself—she falls in with any plan I want to make, and yet_— And yet Dale was not happy—Miss Cornelia felt sure of it. _It isn’t natural for a girl to seem so lackluster and—and quiet—at her age and she’s nervous, too—as if something were preying on her mind—particularly these last few days. If she were in love with somebody—somebody Sally didn’t approve of particularly—well, that would account for it, of course—but Sally didn’t say anything that would make me think that—or Dale either—though I don’t suppose Dale would, yet, even to me. I haven’t seen so much of her in these last two years—_ Then Miss Cornelia’s mind seized upon a sentence in a hurried flow of her sister’s last instructions—a sentence that had passed almost unnoticed at the time—something about Dale and “an unfortunate attachment—but of course, Cornelia, dear, she’s so young—and I’m sure it will come to nothing now her father and I have made our attitude _plain!_” _Pshaw—I bet that’s it_, thought Miss Cornelia shrewdly. _Dale’s fallen in love, or thinks she has, with some decent young man without a penny or an ‘eligibility’ to his name—and now she’s unhappy because her parents don’t approve—or because she’s trying to give him up and finds she can’t. Well—_ and Miss Cornelia’s tight little gray curls trembled with the vehemence of her decision, _if the young thing ever comes to me for advice I’ll give her a piece of my mind that will surprise her and scandalize Sally Van Gorder Ogden out of her seven senses. Sally thinks nobody’s worth looking at if they didn’t come over to America when our family did—she hasn’t gumption enough to realize that if some people hadn’t come over later, we’d all still be living on crullers and Dutch punch!_ She was just stretching out her hand to ring for Lizzie when a knock came at the door. She gathered her Paisley shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “Who is it—oh, it’s only you, Lizzie,” as a pleasant Irish face, crowned by an old-fashioned pompadour of graying hair, peeped in at the door. “Good morning, Lizzie—I was just going to ring for you. Has Miss Dale had breakfast—I know it’s shamefully late.” “Good morning, Miss Neily,” said Lizzie, “and a lovely morning it is, too—if that was all of it,” she added somewhat tartly as she came into the room with a little silver tray whereupon the morning mail reposed.