Uncle John puckered up his face with a comical expression, and then, looking out of the window, whistled the Indian buffalo-call.

Alice sprung up.  “Don’t whistle that provoking thing, Uncle John!  Indeed, I am thoroughly in earnest,—­parties are so tiresome,—­all exactly alike; we always see the same people, or the same sort of people.  There is nothing about them worth having, except the dancing; and even that is not as good as a scamper over the hills with you and the ponies.  You know we have been going to parties for these two years; we have seen so much of society, no wonder we are tired of it.”

“Sit down, Alice,” said Uncle John; “you do look really in earnest, so I suppose you must not be whistled at.  And you have come all the way over here this evening to get me to solve Life’s problem for you?  My dear, I cannot work it out for myself.  You are ‘tired of society’?  Why, little one, you have not seen society yet.  Suppose I could put you down to-night in the midst of some European court,—­could show you men whose courage, wit, or learning had made them world-famous,—­women whose beauty, grace, and cultivation brought those world-famous men to their side, and who held them there by the fascination that high-breeding knows how to use.  Should you talk of sameness then?”

Alice’s eyes sparkled for a moment, then she said,—­

“Yes, I should tire even of that, after a while, glorious as it would be at first.”

“Have you reached such sublime heights of philosophy already?  Then, perhaps, I shall not seem to be talking nonsense, when I tell you that there is nothing in the world of which you would not tire after the first joy of possession was over, no position which would not seem monotonous.  You do not believe me?  Of course not.  We all buy our own experience in life; on one of two rocks we split:  either we do not want a thing after we have got it, or we do not get it till we no longer want it.  Some of us suffer shipwreck both ways.  But, Alice, you must find that out for yourself.”

“Can we not profit by each other’s mistakes, Uncle?”

“No, child.  To what purpose should I show you the breakers where my vessel struck?  Do you suppose you will steer exactly in my path?  But what soberness is this? you are not among breakers yet; you are simply ’tired of living’;” and Uncle John’s smile was too genial to be called satirical.

“Tired of not living, I think,” replied Alice,—­“tired of doing nothing, of having nothing to do.  The girls, Laura and the rest of them, find so much excitement in what seems to me so stupid!”

“You are not exactly like ‘Laura and the rest of them,’ I fancy, my dear, and what suits them is rather too tame for you.  But what do you propose to do with yourself now that you are beginning to live?”

“Now you are laughing at me, Uncle, and you will laugh more when I tell you that I mean to study and to make Kate study with me.”