“I wondered where you were,” Mrs. Mayfield said, as she held the gate ajar for her daughter to pass through. “You know I can't keep from being uneasy since your poor uncle's death.”
“I'm not afraid,” Ethel smiled. She noticed that her mother had folded the letter tightly in her hand and seemed disinclined to refer to it.
“Who is your letter from?” the girl questioned, as they walked across the lawn toward the house.
“Guess,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled, still holding the letter tightly.
“I can't imagine,” Ethel answered, abstractedly, for she was unable to detach herself from the recital she had just heard.
Mrs. Mayfield paused, looked up at the threatening cloud, and then answered, “It is from Mr. Peterson.”
“Oh!” Ethel avoided her mother's fixed stare. “I owe him a letter.”
“From this, I judge that you owe him several,” Mrs. Mayfield answered in a significant tone. “Ethel, I am afraid you are not treating him quite fairly.”
“Fairly! Why do you say that, mother?” Ethel showed some little vexation. Touches of red appeared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed.
“Because you haven't answered his recent letters, for one thing,” was the reply. “You know, daughter, that I have never tried, in the slightest, to influence you in this matter, and—”