"Yes, I know that influences count for a good deal," answered father
in the serious way she loved in him. Father DID understand more than
most grown-ups. And Reverend MacGill was like him in that. She found
time fleetingly to wish that Reverend MacGill were in some way
related to her. Too bad that he was a little too young for Aunt
Nettie; and, perhaps, too old for--she caught herself up, blushing
in the dark, as father went on:

"Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?"

She wished he wouldn't keep speaking of Arthur with that damning
kind of phrase. It was because she wanted to convince him that
Arthur didn't really merit it that she went further in speech than
she'd intended.

"Well, he runs around with frivolous, light-minded people. People
who lead him on to do things he wouldn't dream of doing if they'd
let him alone. It isn't his fault if he's kind of--kind of
dissipated."

She paused, a little awe-stricken herself at this climactic
characterization of poor, misguided Arthur; she couldn't have told
herself just how she had arrived at it. A little confusedly she
rushed on: "He ought to have uplifting, ennobling influences in his
life--Arthur's at heart an awfully nice boy. That's why I wanted
mother to let me go walking with him. Don't you think that--maybe--
if she understood--she might let me?"

How in the world had that last question ever popped out? How had she