“Ah, now you’re getting inquisitive, Miss Becky.”
“I know who it is, Becky,” said Mrs. Thompson. “He’s told me all about it, and I’ll tell you.”
“Mother, mother,” said Harry, with much sternness, “secrets are sacred. You must not tell.”
Becky began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Here was a young lady she had never heard of. There was a secret, and it must not be told. O, dear! somebody was coming between Harry and herself. She covered her eyes with her hand; her face was burning.
“What a silly goose!” she thought, and fell to rubbing her nose again, which now indicated a very high degree of temperature.
“No matter, Becky,” said Harry, noticing her confusion; “I’ll make a clean breast of it, and let you into the secret. When I was at Cambridge, I boarded with a widow who had one daughter. She was about your age, and her name was Alice. Nice name—isn’t it!”
“I don’t know. Yes—yes,” said Becky; “of course. Didn’t she have any other name?”
“Certainly—Alice Parks. But Alice is such a pretty name, it’s a pity it didn’t stand alone, and have no parks about it. Alice—Alice. I do like that name!”
“Why, Harry, what are you thinking of?” asked Mrs. Thompson, in surprise.