"Mr. Stanhope," she said, "will you grant a request that will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that I am heartily ashamed of my foolish course? Will you not spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to retrieve myself from first to last?"
His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, "I will only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it."
"I do wish it," she said earnestly. "What must you think of me?" (His eyes then expressed much admiration; but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added:
"You have noticed at home that they call me 'child'—and indeed, I am little more than one—and now see that I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward you. I have trampled on every principle of hospitality, kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do better. I—"
"Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly and unjustly," interrupted Stanhope.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, "I'm so sorry for what happened last night.
We all might have had such a good time."
"Well, then," said Stanhope, demurely, "I suppose I ought to be also."
"And do you mean to say that you are not?" she asked, turning suddenly upon him.
"Oh, well, certainly, for your sake," he said with rising color.
"But not for your own?" she asked with almost the naivete of a child.