“Of course, I am, Mrs. Winthrop. Dad’s going to cut down my allowance if I don’t get all A’s. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, I’ve had such a heavenly time! Thank you so much for everything.” “You must come again,” said a tall gentleman in white flannels, evidently Priscilla’s father, as he shook hands, while his invitation was echoed heartily by two jolly-looking boys—one of about Donald’s age, though not nearly so nice-looking, Virginia thought, and the other younger. The train gave a warning whistle. “Priscilla, are you sure you haven’t forgotten something?” “First time in her life if she hasn’t!” “Have you your ticket and purse, daughter?” “And did you put your rubbers in your suitcase?” “Yes, mother, yes, daddy, I’ve got everything. Come on, Dot. The conductor’s purple with rage at us! Good-by.” They hurried on board the train, and into the car in which Virginia sat. Then the one they had called Priscilla apparently remembered something, for she flew to the platform. Already the train was moving, but she frantically shouted to her mother: “Oh, mother, my ‘Thought Book’ is under my pillow! I’d die without it! Send it right away, please, and don’t read a word on pain of death!” The younger boy on the station platform executed a kind of improvised war-dance as he heard the words, meaning apparently to convey to his troubled sister his intention of reading as soon as possible her recorded thoughts. Priscilla returned to the car and took her seat, directly opposite the interested Virginia. “If Alden Winthrop reads that ‘Thought Book,’ Dot, I’ll never speak to him again. ’Twould be just like him to make a bee line for my room, and capture it, and then repeat my thoughts for years afterward!” “That’s just the trouble with keeping a diary. I never do. My cousin would be sure to find it. Besides, half the time I’m ashamed of my thoughts after I write them down.”