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 "I see," said Mr. Sothron. "I suppose so."

"Mr. Sothron, there's nothing in it! The other night, Alice and I agreed on the date we want to be married. It's the twenty-second of June. I was going to see you about it this week. I've made my arrangements to go into business; I'm going to have an agency for—"

Mr. Sothron stopped him. "Alice told me of that. Why didn't you see me this week?"

Dave stared and at last said: "I am now, sir."

"Yes," said Mr. Sothron and looked away. "Well, there is no feeling against you here, Dave. It is useless to say there never was. You came to us distinctly as a surprise. We did not expect you; we did not expect any one from Northwestern for—Alice.

"You know we did not expect her to stay there. She was so young, when she was ready for college, we thought we would send her to the university and keep her at home for a year; then we meant to send her to Wellesley; but she would not go. Of course you know you were the chief reason. But perhaps you do not appreciate something else."

"What?" asked Dave, warm and uncomfortable.

"The peculiar advantage you were able to take of her because of the undeveloped state in which you came to college. In a woman's affection—in a girl's love," Mr. Sothron substituted frankly, "there is as much of the maternal as anything else; in some girls' love, at any rate. Alice saw you and liked you and set herself to the business of bringing you out; she began at something which became the greatest thing in the world to her—almost the only thing in her