“Oh, I knew he would do _that_,” answered Nita, with a wise little smile, “for he has the best heart in the world.” “But listen,” went on her companion earnestly. “Janet told Philip about it, excusing herself by saying that he was worrying over the bill, and that she wanted to relieve his mind.” “Of course she did,” giggled Nita, “for one can see with half an eye what is going on in that direction for it is a clear case of ‘spoons,’ all right.” “Do you really think so?” cried Nathalie with sudden animation. “Why, I suggested something of that kind to mother, and she said I was a silly. Well, they were made for one another. Why, Philip just adores the ground she walks on, and as for Janet, it’s just a guessing game as to how she feels. But, to go on with my tale,” continued the girl. “As soon as Philip heard what Janet had to tell, he came straight to me, and, with a voice that fairly shook with emotion, said that my kindness to him would be one of the unforgettable things in his life. Of course I had to make light of the matter, for I saw the poor fellow was terribly affected over it. Oh, I do hope things will brighten for him this fall, for he is going to the city, to make an attempt to get some pupils to tutor until his health is better. You know,” she added, dropping her voice, “I think there must have been some mystery about his grandmother, or his family, for although he loves to come down here and be one of us,—he says it is so homey with us,—he never says a word about her or his family.” Nita had been reading to Miss Whipple, and Nathalie had been tying up sweet peas, one morning a few days after Nita’s news about the detective, and the two girls were on their homeward way, when Nathalie suddenly exclaimed with a little burst of laughter, “Oh, Nita, I have something funny to tell you.” “Well, tell it to me then,” rejoined her companion somewhat dolefully, “for although I have something to tell you, alas, it is anything but funny.” “Oh, is it about Philip?” cried Nathalie, a sudden premonition of evil darkening the golden lights of her eyes. “Or are any more of the girls going to give up taking French lessons?” “It is worse than _that_,” answered Nita, with such grave import in her voice that Nathalie stared at her with big eyes as she cried, “Oh, Nita! do hurry and tell me. Have those girls—” “Yes, those girls, your friends—” “Please don’t call them my friends,” pleaded poor Nathalie tremulously, “for they are anything but friends.”