"I am afraid you would," she answered. "You would have to tell me of things so often."
"Do you mean seriously to tell me that you would take my advice?" he inquired.
"I mightn't take all of it," was her reply; "but I should take some—perhaps a great deal."
"Thanks," he remarked. "I scarcely think I should give you a great deal."
She simply smiled. "I have never had any advice at all," she said. "I don't know that I should have taken it if I had—just as likely as not I shouldn't; but I have never had any. Father spoiled me. He gave me all my own way. He said he didn't care, so long as I had a good time; and I must say I have generally had a good time. I don't see how I could help it—with all my own way, and no one to worry. I wasn't sick, and I could buy any thing I liked, and all that: so I had a good time. I've read of girls, in books, wishing they had mothers to take care of them. I don't know that I ever wished for one particularly. I can take care of myself. I must say, too, that I don't think some mothers are much of an institution. I know girls who have them, and they are always worrying."
He laughed in spite of himself; and though she had been speaking with the utmost seriousness and naiveté, she joined him.
When they ceased, she returned suddenly to the charge.
"Now tell me what I have done this afternoon that isn't right," she said,—"that Lucia Gaston wouldn't have done, for instance. I say that, because I shouldn't mind being a little like Lucia Gaston—in some things."
"Lucia ought to feel gratified," he commented.
"She does," she answered. "We had a little talk about it, and she was as pleased as could be. I didn't think of it in that way until I saw her begin to blush. Guess what she said."