aid
Mrs. Lapham.

"Well, I'll let her know if he does," said the Colonel.

"I guess he won't do it to you!" she cried.

"Who else will he do it to?" he demanded.

They perceived that they had each been talking of a different offer.

After Lapham went to his business in the morning the postman brought
another letter from Irene, which was full of pleasant things that were
happening to her; there was a great deal about her cousin Will, as she
called him. At the end she had written, "Tell Pen I don't want she
should be foolish." "There!" said Mrs. Lapham. "I guess it's going to
come out right, all round;" and it seemed as if even the Colonel's
difficulties were past. "When your father gets through this, Pen," she
asked impulsively, "what shall you do?"

"What have you been telling Irene about me?"

"Nothing much. What should you do?"

"It would be a good deal easier to say what I should do if father
didn't," said the girl.

"I know you think it was nice in him to make your father that offer,"
urged the mother.

"It was nice, yes; but it was silly," said the girl. "Most nice things
are silly, I suppose," she added.

She went to her room and wrote a letter. It was very long, and very
carefully written; and when she read it over, she tore it into small
pieces. She wrote another one, short and hurried, and tore that up
too. Then she went back to her mother, in the family room, and asked
to see Irene's letter, and read it over to herself. "Yes, she seems to
be having a good time," she sighed. "Mother, do you think I ought to
let Mr. Corey know that I know about it?"

"Well, I should think it would be a pleasure to him," said Mrs. Lapham
judicially.

"I'm not so sure of that the way I should have to tell him. I should
begin by giving him a scolding. Of course, he meant well by it, but
can't you see that it wasn't very flattering! How did he expect it
would change me?"

"I don't believe he ever thought of that."

"Don't you? Why?"

"Because you can see that he isn't one of that kind. He might want to
please you without wanting to change you by what he did."

"Yes. He must have known that nothing would change me,--at least,
nothing that he could do. I thought of that. I shouldn't like him to
feel that I couldn't appreciate it, even if I did think it was silly.
Should you write to him?"

"I don't see why not."

"It would be too pointed. No, I shall just let it go. I wish he
hadn't done it.