“Gratefully yours, “THEA WEST.” Mrs. de Vere sat gazing at the letter like a statue. She could not realize it, this proud, defiant spirit of the girl she remembered so kindly. A vision of the child stole over her--the sunny curls, the frank blue eyes, the loving heart. How could this be Little Sweetheart? “Well, mother?” Norman said at last, impatient of her blank silence. “I do not know what to say! I can not realize that Little Sweetheart could defy us like this,” she answered. “She has not been well trained, I fear,” he said. “I have a letter, too, from George Hinton. She has refused to come with him. She is determined to earn her own living, he says, but it may be that her old associates have wounded her pride by unkind allusions to her dependent condition, and fairly driven her into asserting her independence,” thoughtfully. She caught eagerly at the idea. “It may be true. Perhaps she has been misjudged. If she is so pretty, men may have fallen in love with her without much effort on her part.” He smiled, and said: “Dear little mother, always looking on the bright side of human nature!” “Is it not best?” she asked, pleadingly; and Norman smiled again as he answered: “Yes.” “But what are you going to do, Norman? Must we give it up like this--after all my trouble, too? Those pretty rooms!” she sighed. “Mother, I believe you are actually disappointed.” “I am,” she said; and the great tears started into her eyes. The handsome old face was drawn into lines of disappointment. He stooped down and kissed her with something of the old boyish love so long repressed under the bitter consciousness that she blamed him for Camille’s sorrow. “Dear mother, you must not be disappointed,” he said, tenderly. “You have set your heart on this girl, I see. Then why not undertake a mission to Virginia? I flatter myself that no one could resist my mother.” “Do you mean it, Norman? Would you like for me to go?” she cried, in real excitement; and he saw how much her heart was set on having the girl at Verelands. “Yes, I mean it, mother. I would go myself, but I am not sure I would succeed. With you it would be different. She would fall in love with you.” “And why not with you?” she said, brightly. Then the color flew to her cheek. “Oh, Norman, I didn’t mean _that_ way!” she said, vaguely. “But she couldn’t help liking you on sight--as a dear older brother, of course.” “‘Of course,’” he echoed, smiling at her confusion. “Let me see, mother--how old am I? Thirty-five? I feel fifty; and Thea West is about seventeen--almost young enough for my daughter.” He flushed as a certain bitter memory rose in his mind, but added, lightly: “I hope the inveterate little coquette will have more respect for my gray hairs than to try her arts on me.”