"I don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. I'll study just as hard."
"You'd be lonely here all day, Alma."
"I want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly.
Mrs. Driscoll looked very sober. "Let's sit down at the table," she said, "for I have your boiled egg all ready."
Alma took her place opposite her mother. Supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds.
"I want to hear all about it, Alma, but you'd better eat first," said Mrs. Driscoll, as she poured the tea.
"It isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. Everybody has some one she likes to play with."
A pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile.
"Oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,—