Helen did not read any further for joy. She had so longed for a chance at Craig and now she was to have it. Her friend did not say that he was at the Prospect House, but unquestionably he was. At all events he was in the town, which was not like Saratoga, and her good resolutions melted like wax. Resuming her letter to Alice, she wrote: “I broke off abruptly to read a letter from Belle Sherman, who was with us in Europe and lives in Boston. And what do you think? Craig Mason is in Ridgefield, presumably at the Prospect House, and I—well, I am going on the war path just once more before I reform, as I intended to do. You remember I wrote you about him last summer when I was in Saratoga. He was the only young man of any account who did not pay me some attention. He ignored me, and, _entre nous_, I mean to pay him off for saying I was not his style. What is his style, I wonder? If I only knew I could soon adapt myself to it. You’ll have to find out and coach me. You have a way which makes people show themselves to you as they are, while with me there is always something held back, as if we were playing hide and seek. _Entre nous_ again. I don’t know about Mr. Prescott. It seems as if fate were leading me to Ridgefield and Craig Mason. He is a most desirable _parti_, and mother would be in a state of beatitude to be allied with the Masons of Boston. Ah, well, _nous verrons_. How Frenchy I am. Bad French, Celine, my maid, would say, with admirable frankness. “Now, remember, I rely on you to help me in every way with this Sphinx until I can say ‘_Veni, Vidi, Vici._’ Latin, as well as French. I am rather learned after all. Write at once and say you will meet us in Springfield. “Lovingly, but on mischief bent, “Your cousin, Helen.” “P. S. I shall take _some_ of my best clothes, and you better put in your trunk a book or two of such literature and poetry as you think adapted to my capacity in case the Sphinx proves bookish like Mr. Prescott. “Again adieu, “Helen.” CHAPTER VIII. ALICE.