DONALD AND DOROTHY

[Illustration: DOROTHY AT SIXTEEN. ]

DONALD AND DOROTHY

BY

MARY MAPES DODGE

AUTHOR OF "HANS BRINKER; OR, THE SILVER SKATES"

WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS

[Illustration]

 NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1906

 _Copyright, 1883, _ BY MARY MAPES DODGE. 

 _All rights reserved. _

 THE DE VINNE PRESS. 

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

 CHAPTER I. IN WHICH NONE OF THE CHARACTERS APPEAR 1

 CHAPTER II. FOURTEEN YEARS AFTERWARDS 3

 CHAPTER III. WHICH PARTLY EXPLAINS ITSELF 7

 CHAPTER IV. THE DRIVE 23

 CHAPTER V. SUPPER-TIME 29

 CHAPTER VI. A FAMILY CONFERENCE 31

 CHAPTER VII. THE DANBYS 47

 CHAPTER VIII. TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING 62

 CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH SOME WELL-MEANING GROWN FOLK APPEAR 71

 CHAPTER X. WHICH PRESENTS A FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. REED AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 80

 CHAPTER XI. JACK 93

 CHAPTER XII. A DAY IN NEW YORK 98

 CHAPTER XIII. DONALD AND DOROTHY ENTERTAIN FANDY 106

 CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH UNCLE GEORGE PROPOSES SOMETHING DELIGHTFUL 119

 CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE-PICNIC 124

 CHAPTER XVI. A DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET 155

 CHAPTER XVII. DORRY ASKS A QUESTION 166

 CHAPTER XVIII. THE GYMNASIUM 176

 CHAPTER XIX. THE "G. B. C. " 180

 CHAPTER XX. THE SHOOTING-MATCH 194

 CHAPTER XXI. DANGER 205

 CHAPTER XXII. A FROLIC ON THE WATER 210

 CHAPTER XXIII. YANKEE AND DOODLE 224

 CHAPTER XXIV. DONALD 236

 CHAPTER XXV. THE SUNSET 243

 CHAPTER XXVI. UNCLE GEORGE TELLS DONALD 248

 CHAPTER XXVII. DELIA, OR DOROTHY? 257

 CHAPTER XXVIII. DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS 265

 CHAPTER XXIX. AN UNEXPECTED LETTER 271

 CHAPTER XXX. A TIME OF SUSPENSE 281

 CHAPTER XXXI. ONLY A BIT OF RAG 289

 CHAPTER XXXII. DONALD MAKES A DISCOVERY 301

 CHAPTER XXXIII. AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW 314

 CHAPTER XXXIV. MADAME RENÉ TELLS HER STORY 326

 CHAPTER XXXV. A DAY OF JOY 350

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

 PAGE

 DOROTHY AT SIXTEEN _Frontispiece_

 THE SPARKLING LAKE BEYOND 4

 "YOU'VE HER SHINING DARK HAIR, MASTER DONALD, " SAID LIDDY 15

 THE END OF THE DRIVE 27

 DONALD'S THOUGHTS 34

 MRS. DANBY'S DREAM: THE FOUR ENGLISH BRANCHES 52

 FANDY "PREACHES A SERMON" TO HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS 55

 DONALD TO THE RESCUE 67

 MCSWIVER 72

 "I USED TO STAND AND WONDER AT THEM WHEN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN WORKIN'" 78

 TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET 101

 THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL 108

 FANDY'S FIRST FENCING-MATCH 111

 THE FENCING-MASTER 115

 THE MAID OF ORLEANS 127

 THE CANDY-PULLING 129

 THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE GALLERY 143

 GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE 146

 JOSIE MANNING WAITS FOR DORRY 163

 DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM 178

 "SO PICTURESKY!" 185

 "HE'S COMPLAININ'" 187

 "DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE, AND FIRED" 208

 THE CONSPIRATORS' PLOT IS CARRIED INTO EFFECT 217

 BEN'S CIDER EXPERIENCE 222

 OFF FOR EUROPE 269

 KASSY EVIDENTLY HAD SOMETHING ON HER MIND 275

 MONSIEUR BAJEAU BECOMES INTERESTED IN DONALD'S CHAIN 307

DONALD AND DOROTHY. 

CHAPTER I. 

IN WHICH NONE OF THE CHARACTERS APPEAR. 

The door of the study was closed, and only Nero was to be seen. He, poordog, stood in the wide hall gazing wistfully at the knob, and prickingup his ears whenever sounds of movement in the room aroused his hope ofbeing admitted. Suddenly he gave a yelp of delight. Somebody surely wasapproaching the door. The steps--they were a man's--halted. There was asoft, rolling sound, as if the master's chair were being drawn to thetable; next, a rustling of paper; a deep-voiced moan; the rapidscratching of a quill pen; then silence--silence--and poor Nero againstood at half-mast. 

Any ordinary dog would have barked, or pawed impatiently at the door. But Nero was not an ordinary dog. He knew that something unusual wasgoing on, something with which even he, the protector and pet of thehousehold, the frisky Master of Ceremonies, must not interfere. But whenthe bell-pull within the room clicked sharply, and a faint tinkle cameup from below, he flew eagerly to the head of the basement stairs, andwagged his bushy tail with a steady, vigorous stroke, as though it werethe crank of some unseen machine which slowly and surely would drawLiddy, the housemaid, up the stairway. 

The bell rang again. The machine put on more steam. Still no Liddy. Could she be out? Nero ran back to take an agonized glance at themotionless knob, leaped frantically to the stairs again--and, at thatmoment, the study-door opened. There was a heavy tread; the ecstaticNero rushed in between a pair of dignified legs moving toward the greathall door; he spun wildly about for an instant, and then, with a deepsigh of satisfaction, settled down on the rug before the study fire. Forthere was not a soul in the room. 

CHAPTER II. 

FOURTEEN YEARS AFTERWARD. 

THE house is there still; so is Nero, now an honored old dog frisky onlyin his memories. But old as he is in teeth and muscle, he is hardly pastmiddle-age in the wag of his still bushy tail, and is as young as everin happy devotion to his master. Liddy, too, is down stairs, promoted, but busy as in the days gone by; and the voice of that very bell tinkledbut an hour ago. 

Here is the same study; some one within, and the door closed. Opposite, on the other side of the wide hall, is the parlor, its windows lookingacross piazza, sloping lawn, road-way, and field, straight out to thesparkling lake beyond. Back of the parlor is a sunny sitting-room, itsbay-window framing a pleasant view of flower-garden, apple-orchard, andgrape-arbor--a few straggling bunches clinging to the almost leaflessNovember vines. And within, throughout the house indeed, floats asunny-shady combination of out-door air, with a faint, delightful odorof open wood-fires. What a quiet, homelike, beautiful place it is!

Let us look into the sitting-room. 

A boy, with his back toward the door, mounted upon the end of a bigsofa, his bended knee tightly held between his arms, his head thrustforward earnestly, --altogether, from the rear view, looking like aremarkable torso with a modern jacket on, --that's Donald. Near him, onthe sofa, a glowing face with bright brown hair waving back from it, thechin held in two brownish little hands, and beneath that a mass of darkred merino, revealing in a meandering, drapery way that its wearer ishalf-kneeling, half-sitting, --that's Dorothy. 

[Illustration: THE SPARKLING LAKE BEYOND. ]

I am obliged to confess it, these two inelegant objects on a veryelegant piece of furniture are the hero and heroine of my story. 

Do not imagine, however, that Donald and Dorothy could not, if theychose to do so, stand before you comely and fair as any girl and boy inthe land. It is merely by accident that we catch this first glimpse ofthem. They have been on that sofa in just those positions for at leastfive minutes, and, from present appearances, they intend to remain sountil further notice. 

Dorothy is speaking, and Donald is--not exactly listening, but waitingfor his turn to put in a word, thus forming what may be called a lull inthe conversation; for up to this point both have been speaking together. 

"It's too much for anything, so it is! I'm going to ask Liddy about it, that's what I'm going to do; for she was almost ready to tell me theother day, when Jack came in and made her mad. "

"Don't you do it!" Donald's tone is severe, but still affectionate andconfidential. "Don't you do it. It's the wrong way, I tell you. What didshe get mad at?"

"Oh, nothing. Jack called her 'mess-mate' or something, and she flaredup. But, I tell you, I'm just going to ask her right out what makes himact so. "

"Nonsense, " said Donald. "It's only his sailor-ways; and besides--"

"No, no. I don't mean Jack. I mean Uncle. I do believe he hates me!"

"Oh, Dorry! Dorry!"

"Well, he doesn't love me any more, anyhow! I know he's good and allthat, and I love him just as much as you do, Don, every bit, so youneedn't be so dreadfully astonished all in a minute. I love Uncle Georgeas much as anybody in the world does, but that is no reason why, whenever Aunt Kate is mentioned, he--"

"Yes, it is, Dot. You ought to wait. "

"I _have_ waited--why, Don" (and her manner grows tearful and tragic), "I've waited nearly thirteen years!"

Here Don gives a quick, suddenly suppressed laugh, and asks her, "whyshe didn't say fourteen, " and Dorothy tells him sharply that "he needn'ttalk--they're pretty even on that score" (which is true enough), andthat she really has been "longing and dying to know ever since she was alittle, little bit of a girl, and who wouldn't?"

Poor Dorothy! She will "long to know" for many a day yet. And so willthe good gentleman who now sits gazing at the fire in the study acrossthe wide hall, his feet on the very rug upon which Nero settled himselfon that eventful November day, exactly fourteen years ago. 

And so will good, kind Lydia, the housekeeper, and so will Jack, thesailor-coachman, at whom she is always "flaring up, " as Dorothy says. 

CHAPTER III. 

WHICH PARTLY EXPLAINS ITSELF. 

DOROTHY REED was of a somewhat livelier temperament than Donald, andthat, as she often could not but feel, gave her an advantage. Also, shewas ahead of him in history, botany, and rhetoric. Donald, though fullof boyish spirit, was steadier, more self-possessed than Dorothy, and inalgebra and physical geography he "left her nowhere, " as the young ladyherself would tersely confess when in a very good humor. But never werebrother and sister better friends. "She's first-rate, " Don would say, confidentially, to some boon companion, "not a bit like a girl, youknow, --more like--well, no, there's nothing tomboyish about her, butshe's spirited and never gets tired or sickish like other girls. " Andmany a time Dorothy had declared to some choice confidential friend ofthe twining-arms sort, that Donald was "perfectly splendid! nicer thanall the boys she ever had seen, put together. "

On one point they were fully united, and that was in their love forUncle George, though of late it seemed that he was constantly makingrough weather for them. 

This expression, "rough weather, " is not original, but is borrowed fromSailor Jack, whom you soon shall know nearly as well as the two D's did. 

And "the two D's" is not original either. That is Liddy's. She calledDonald and Dorothy "the two D's" for brevity's sake, when they were notpresent, just as she often spoke of the master of the house, in hisabsence, as "Mr. G. " There was no thought of disrespect in this. It wasa way that had come upon her after she had learned her alphabet inmiddle life, and had stopped just at the point of knowing or guessingthe first letter of a word or a name. Farther than that into the pathsof learning, Liddy's patience had failed to carry her. But the use ofinitials she felt was one of the short cuts that education afforded. Besides, the good soul knew secrets which, without her master'spermission, nothing would induce her to reveal. So, to speak of "Mr. G. "or "the D's, " had a confidential air of mystery about it that in someway was a great relief to her. 

Mr. George was known by his lady friends as "a confirmed bachelor, but amost excellent man, " the "but" implying that every well-to-do gentlemanought to marry, and "the excellent man" referring to the fact that eversince the children had been brought to him, fourteen years before, twohelpless little babies, he had given them more than a father's care. Hewas nearly fifty years of age, a tall, "iron-gray" gentleman, with thecourtliest of manners and the warmest of hearts; yet he was, as Liddydescribed him to her cousins, the Crumps, "an unexpected kind o' person, Mr. G. Was. Just when you made up your mind he was very stiff anddignified, his face would light up into such a beautiful glow! Andthen, when you thought how nice, and hearty, and sociable he was, hewould look so grave out of his eyes, and get so straight in the backthat he seemed like a king in an ermine robe. "

When Liddy had compared a man to "a king in an ermine robe, " she hadexpressed her utmost pitch of admiration. She had heard this expressionlong ago in a camp-meeting discourse, and it seemed to her almost toogrand a phrase for human use, unless one were speaking of Mr. George. 

And a king Mr. George was, in some ways; a king who ruled himself, andwhose subjects--Mr. George's traits of character--were loyal to theirsovereign. Yet on one point he did deserve to be otherwise compared. Alldifficulties that were under his power to control he would bravely meet;but when anything troubled him which he could not remedy, --in fact, onoccasions when he was perplexed, worried, or unable to decide promptlyupon a course of action, --he often was a changed being. Quick as a flashthe beautiful, genial glow would vanish, the kingly ermine would dropoff, and he could be likened only to one of the little silver owls thatwe see upon dinner-tables, quite grand and proper in bearing, but verypeppery within, and liable to scatter the pepper freely when suddenlyupset. 

Poor Dorry! It had been her sad experience to call forth thiscatastrophe very often of late, and in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes a mere gesture, even the tone of her voice, seemed to annoyher uncle. On one occasion, while he was pleasantly explaining somepublic matter to Donald and herself, she laid her hand gently upon theback of his, by way of expressing her interest in the conversation, andhis excited "Why did you do that?" made the poor girl jump from him interror. 

Lydia, who was softly brushing the fireplace at that moment, saw it all, and saw, too, how quickly he recovered himself and spoke kindly to thechild. But she muttered under her breath, as she went slowly down to thebasement, --

"Poor Mr. G's gettin' worse of late, he is. I don't see as he ever willfeel settled now. It's amazin' puzzlin', it is. "

Yes, it was puzzling. And nobody better understood and pitied the kinglysoul's perplexity than the good woman. Even Jack, the coachman, thoughhe knew a good deal, had but a faint idea of what the poor gentlemansuffered. 

On the day when we saw Donald and Dorothy perched on the sofa, Mr. Reedhad been remarkably changeful, and they had been puzzled and grieved byhis manner toward Dorothy. He had been kind and irritable by turns, andfinally, for some unaccountable reason, had sharply requested her toleave him, to "go away for mercy's sake, " and then she had been recalledon some slight pretext, and treated with extra kindness, only to bewounded the next moment by a look from her uncle that, as she afterwarddeclared, "made her feel as if she had struck him. "

Donald, full of sympathy for Dorry, yet refusing to blame Uncle Georgewithout a fuller understanding of the matter, had followed his sisterinto the parlor, and there they had tried in vain to solve the mystery. For a mystery there evidently was. Dot was sure of it; and Donald, failing to banish this "foolish notion, " as he called it, from Dot'smind, had ended by secretly sharing it, and reluctantly admitting tohimself that Uncle George, kind, good Uncle George, really had not, oflate, been very kind and good to Dorry. 

"He hasn't been _ugly_, " thought Donald to himself, while Dorothy satthere, eagerly watching her brother's countenance, --"Uncle couldn't bethat. But he seems to love her one minute, and be half afraid of her thenext--no, not exactly afraid of her, but afraid of his own thoughts. Something troubles him. I wonder what in the world it is! May be--"

"Well?" exclaimed Dorry, impatiently, at last. 

"Well, " repeated Don, in a different tone, "the fact is, it _is_ tryingfor you, Dorry, and I can't make it out. "

Meanwhile Lydia, down stairs, was working herself into what she called"a state" on this very matter. "It isn't Christian, " she thought toherself, "though if ever a man was a true, good Christian, Mr. G. Is;but he's amazin' odd. The fact is, he doesn't know his own mind in thisbusiness from one day to the next, and he thinks, Jack and I are stoneblind--Mercy! If here don't come those precious children!"

Surely enough, the precious children were on their way down the kitchenstairs. They did not go into that cheerful, well-scrubbed apartment, however, but trudged directly into the adjoining room, in which Liddy, guarded by the faithful old dog, Nero, was now seated, peeling apples. It had been fitted up for Lydia years before when, from a simplehousemaid, she was "promoted, " as she said, "to have eyes to things andwatch over the D's. "

"You may think it strange, " she had said, grandly, that very morning, toJack, looking around at the well-polished, old-fashioned furniture, andthe still bright three-ply carpet, "that I should have my sitting-roomdown here, and my sleeping apartment up stairs, but so it is. Theservants need watching more than the children, as you know, Mr. Jack, and I've had to have eyes to things ever since the D's first came. Master Donald says I ought to call it 'having an eye, ' but sakes! whatwould one eye be in a house like this? No, it's eyes I want, both eyes, and more too, with the precious D's wild as young hawks, and Mr. G. Ashe is of late, and the way things are. "

 * * * * *

Lydia looked up when Donald and Dorothy entered, with a "Sakes! You'venot been fretting again, Miss Dorry?"

"No--not exactly fretting, Liddy; that is, not very much. We just camedown to--to-- Give me an apple?"

"Steady! St-e-a-dy!" cried Liddy, as after her hearty "help yourselves, "the brother and sister made a simultaneous dash at the pan on her amplelap, playfully contesting for the largest. "One would think you werestarving. "

"So we are, Liddy, " said Dorothy, biting her apple as she spoke; "we arestarving for a story. "

"Yes!" echoed Donald, "a story. We're bound to have it!"

"Hum!" muttered Liddy, much flattered. "Do you know your lessons?"

"Per-fectly!" answered the D's, in one breath. "We studied them rightafter Dr. Lane left. "

"Well, " began Liddy, casting a furtive look at the old mahogany clock onthe mantel; "which story do you want? You've heard 'em all a score oftimes. "

"Oh, not that kind, " said Dorothy, playfully motioning to her brother, for you see by this time she was quite cheerful again. "We want acertain par-tic-ular story, don't we, Don?"

Instead of replying, Don took Dorry's outstretched hand with nonsensicalgrace, and so dancing to the fireplace together, in a sort of burlesqueminuet, they brought back with them two little mahogany and hair-clothfoot-benches, placing them at Lydia's feet. 

Ignoring the fact that these well-worn seats were absurdly low andsmall, the D's settled themselves upon them as comfortably as in thedays gone by, when the benches had been of exactly the right size forthem; and at the risk of upsetting the apples, pan and all, they leanedtoward Liddy with an expressive "Now!"

All this had been accomplished so quickly, that Liddy would have beenquite taken by surprise had she not been used to their ways. 

"Bless your bright eyes!" she laughed, uneasily looking from one beamingface to the other; "you take one's breath away with your quick motions. And now what certain, special, wonderful kind of a story do you want?"

"Why, _you_ know. Tell us all about it, Lydia, " spoke Dorothy, soberedin an instant. 

"Sakes! Not again? Well, where shall I begin?"

"Oh, at the very beginning, " answered Donald; and Dorothy's eager, expressive nod said the same thing. 

"Well, " began Lydia, "about fourteen years ago--"

"No, no, not there, please, but 'way, away back as far as you canremember; farther back than you ever told us before. "

"Well, " and Lydia proceeded to select a fresh apple and peel it slowlyand deliberately; "well, I was once a young chit of a girl, and I cameto this house to live with your Aunt Kate. She wasn't any aunt then, nota bit of it, but a sweet, pretty, perky, lady-girl as ever was; and shehad" (here Liddy looked sad, and uttered a low "Dear, dear! how strangeit seems!")--"she had two splendid brothers, Mr. George Reed and Mr. Wolcott Reed (your papa, you know). Oh, she was the sweetest young ladyyou ever set eyes on! Well, they all lived here in this veryhouse, --your grandpa and grandma had gone to the better world a fewyears before, --and Master G. Was sort of head of the family, you see, asthe oldest son ought to be. "

Donald unconsciously sat more erect on his bench, and thrust his feetfarther forward on the carpet. 

"Yes, Master G. Was the head, " Liddy went on, "but you wouldn't haveknown it, they were all so united and loving-like. Miss Kate, thoughkind of quick, was just too sweet and good for anything, --'the lightof the house, ' as the young master called her, and--"

[Illustration: "YOU'VE HER SHINING DARK HAIR, MASTER DONALD, " SAIDLIDDY]

"Oh, I do love so much to hear about Aunt Kate!" exclaimed Dorothy, hercolor brightening as she drew her bench up still closer to Liddy. Bothof the apples were eaten by this time, and the D's had forgotten to askfor more. "Do we look like her?"

Here Donald and Dorothy turned and gazed full in Lydia's face, waitingfor the answer. 

"Well, yes--and no, too. You've her shining dark hair, Master Donald, and her way of steppin' firm, but there isn't a single feature like her. And it's so with you, Miss Dorry, not a feature just right for thelikeness; still you've a something, somehow--somewhere--and yet I can'tplace it; it's what I call a vanishin' likeness. "

At this the two D's lost their eager look, and burst into a heartylaugh. 

"Hello, old Vanisher!" said Donald, making a sudden dive at Dorothy. 

"Hello, old Stiff-legs!" retorted Dorothy, laughing and pushing himaway. 

Here old Nero roused himself, and growled a low, rumbling, distantgrowl, as if protesting against some unwelcome intruder. 

"There, children, that's sufficient!" said Liddy, with dignity. "Don'tget tussling. It isn't gentleman-and-lady-like. Now see how you'vetumbled your sister's hair, Master Donald, and Mr. G. 's so particular. Hear Nero, too! Sakes! it seems sometimes like a voice from the dead tohear him go that way when we're talking of old times. "

"Be still, old fellow!" cried Donald, playfully. "Don't you see Liddy'stalking to us? Well, we look like our mamma, any way, --don't we, Liddy?"

"That picture of your mamma in your room, Master Donald, " replied Lydia, "has certainly a good deal of your look, but I can't say from my ownknowledge that it ever was a good likeness. It was sent over afterward, you know, and your mamma never was here except once, and then it sohappened I was off to camp-meeting with Cousin Crump. Your papa used togo to see the young lady down at her home in New York, and after thewedding they went to Niagara Falls, and after that to Europe. Seems tome this going out of your own country's a bad business for young coupleswho ought to settle down and begin life. " (Here Nero stood up, and hisgrowl grew more decided. ) "Well, as I was saying--Mercy on us! If thereisn't that man again!"

The last part of Lydia's sentence, almost drowned by Nero's barking, wasaddressed to the empty window; at least it was empty when the D's turnedtoward it. 

"Who? where?" shouted Dorothy. But Donald sprang up from the bench, and, followed by the noisy old Nero, ran out of the room, across thebasement-hall, and through the back-door, before Lydia had time toreply. 

"Who was it, Liddy?" asked Dorry, still looking toward the empty window, while Nero came sauntering back as though the matter that had lured himforth had not been worth the trouble of following up. 

"Oh, no one, dearie, " said Lydia, with assumed carelessness; "that is, no one in particular. It's just a man. Well, as I was saying, your AuntKate wasn't only the light of the house, she was the heart of the house, too, the very heart. It was dreary enough after she went off to England, poor darling. "

"Yes, yes, go on, " urged Dorry, earnestly, at the same time wondering ather brother's hasty departure. "Go on, Liddy, that's a dear. I canrepeat it all to Donald, you know. "

"There isn't any more, Miss Dorry. That's the end of the first part ofthe story. You know the second well enough, poor child, and sad enoughit is. "

"Yes, " said Dorry, in a low tone, "but tell me the rest of thebeginning. "

"Why, what _do_ you mean, Miss Dorry? There's nothing else totell, --that is, nothing that I got ear of. I suppose there were lettersand so on; in fact, I _know_ there were, for many a time I brought Mr. George's mail in to him. _That_ day, I took the letters and papers toMr. G. In the library, --poor, lonely gentleman he looked!--and then Iwent down to my kitchen fire (I was in the housework then), and someminutes after, when I'd been putting on coal and poking it up bright, itkind o' struck me that the master's bell had been ringing. Up I hurried, but when I reached the library, he was gone out, and no one was therebut Nero (yes, _you_, old doggie!), lying before the fire, as if heowned the house. And that's the end of the first part, so far as Iknow. "

"Yes, " persisted Dorothy; "but I want to hear more about what happenedbefore that. I know about our poor papa dying abroad, and about thewreck, and how our mamma and--"

She could not go on. Often she could speak of all this without crying;but the poor girl had been strained and excited all the afternoon, andnow, added to the sorrow that surged through her heart at the suddenthought of the parents whom she could not even remember, came thecertainty that again she was to be disappointed. It was evident, fromLydia's resolute though kindly face, that she did not mean to tell anymore of the first half of the story. 

The good woman smoothed Dorothy's soft hair gently, and spoke soothinglyto her, begging her to be a good girl and not cry, and to remember whata bright, happy little miss she was, and what a beautiful home she had, and how young folk ought always to be laughing and skipping about, and--

"Liddy!" said Donald, suddenly appearing at the door. "Uncle wishes tosee you. "

Lydia, flushing, set down the pan, and, hurriedly smoothing her apron, walked out of the room. 

"Uncle called me from the window--that's why I stayed, " explainedDonald, "and he told me to bid Jack hitch the horses to the bigcarriage. We're to get ready for a drive. And then he asked me where youwere, and when I told him, he said: 'Send Lydia here, at once. '"

"Was Uncle very angry, Donald?" asked Dorry, wiping her eyes. 

"Oh, no. At first he seemed sorry, and I think he got up the drive justto give you pleasure, Dorry. He wanted to see me about something, andthen he asked more about our visit to Liddy's room, and I told him shewas only telling us a true story about him and our father, and--andthat's when he sent me for Liddy, before I could say another word. Don'tcry any more, Dot, --please don't. Go put on your things, and we'll havea gay old drive with Uncle. I'll not take the pony this time. "

"Oh, do!" coaxed Dorry, faintly, for in her heart she meant, "Oh, don't!" It was good in Donald, she knew, to be willing to give up hispony-ride, and take a seat in the stately carriage instead of canteringalongside, and she disliked to rob him of the pleasure. But to-day herheart was lonely; Uncle had been "queer, " and life looked so dark to herin consequence, that to have Donald on the same seat with her would be agreat comfort. 

"No, " said Don. "Some day, soon, you and I will take our ponies, and gooff together for a good run; but to-day I'd rather go with you in thecarriage, Dot, "--and that settled it. 

She ran to put on her hat and bright warm woollen wrap, for it was earlyNovember, and beginning to be chilly. The carriage rolled to the door;Uncle George, grave but kind, met her, handed her in as though she werea little duchess, and then said:--

"Now, Dorothy, who shall go with us, to-day? Cora Danby or Josie? Youmay call for any one you choose. "

"Oh, may I, Uncle? Thank you! Then we'll invite Josie, please. "

Her troubles were forgotten; Uncle smiling; Donald beside her, andJosephine Manning going with them; the afternoon bright and glowing. Things were not so bad, after all. 

"Drive to Mr. Manning's, John, " said Mr. Reed, as Jack, closing thecarriage-door, climbed up to the box in a way that reminded one of asailor's starting to mount a ship's rigging. 

"Ay, ay, Capt'n, " said Jack, and they were off. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE DRIVE. 

JOSIE MANNING was not at home, when the carriage stopped at her door;and so the party decided to drive on without company. 

It was a beautiful autumnal day, and the modest little lakeside village, which, in deference to its shy ways, we shall call Nestletown, did itsbest to show its appreciation of the weather. Its windows lighted upbrilliantly in the slanting sunlight, and its two spires, Baptist andMethodist, reaching up through the yellow foliage, piously rivalled eachother in raising their shining points to the sky. The roads wereremarkably fine at that time; yet it seemed that almost the only personswho, on this special afternoon, cared to drive out and enjoy them wereour friends in the open carriage. 

The fine old equipage rolled along at first without a sound beyond thewhir of its wheels and the regular quadruple beat of the horses' hoofs;and everything appeared to be very placid and quiet. But how manyinterests were represented, and how different they were!

First, the horses: while vaguely wishing Jack would loosen his hold, andthat the hard iron something in their mouths would snap in two andrelieve them, they were enjoying their own speed, taking in greatdraughts of fine air, keeping their eyes open and their ears ready forany startling thing that might leap from the rustling bushes along thedrive, or from the shadows of the road-side trees, and longing in anelegant, well-fed way for the plentiful supper that awaited them athome. Next was the group of little belated insects that, tempted by theglittering sunlight, happened to go along, alighting now on thecarriage, now on Jack, and now on the horses. Not being horseflies, theywere not even noticed by the span, --yet they had business of their own, whatever it could have been so late in the season, and were brisklyattending to it. Next, there was Jack, --good sailor Jack, --sittingupright, soberly dressed in snug-fitting clothes, and a high blackstove-pipe hat, when at heart he longed to wear his tarpaulin and moveabout on his sea-legs again. His only consolation was to feel thecarriage roll and pitch over the few uneven places along the road, topull at his "tiller-ropes, " as he called the reins, and "guide the craftas trim" as he could. Honest Jack, though a coachman now (for reasonswhich you shall know before long), was a sailor at heart, and followedhis old ways as far as his present situation would allow. At this verymoment he was wondering at his own weakness "in turning himself into amiserable land-lubber, all for love of the capt'n and the two littlemiddies. " Meantime, Donald was divided between random boy-thoughts onone side, and a real manly interest in Dorothy, whose lot seemed to himdecidedly less pleasant than his own. Dorry was quietly enjoying thechange from keen grief to its absence, and a sense of security in beingso near Uncle and Donald. And the uncle--what shall I say of him? ShallI describe only the stately form, the iron-gray hair, the kindly facebrightened by the yellow afternoon light?--or shall I tell you of thelately happy, but now anxious, troubled man, who within a few days hadbeen made to feel it possible that the dearest thing he had on earthmight soon be his no longer. 

"Oh, Uncle, " said Dorry, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you something!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. George, in playful astonishment, aquick smile rising to his lips, and his eyes full of pleasant inquiry. "What did my little maid forget to tell me?"

"Why, about the man on the croquet-ground. I was practising aroquet-shot, and before I knew it, he was close by me, a great, tall, lanky man, calling me 'Sis' and--"

"The rascal!" exclaimed Uncle George, growing red and angry in a moment. "And what business had you to--"

"I didn't, Uncle, I didn't. I'm too old to be called 'Sis, ' and he actedjust as if I ought to know him, and be real pleasant. I wouldn't have aword to say to him, but just turned around and ran to look for Donald. Didn't I, Don?"

"Yes, " said Donald, but before he said it he had scowled, and nodded tohis uncle, slyly as he thought, but his sister's eyes were keen. 

"I declare, it's too bad!" broke forth Dorry, impetuously. "Everybodygets mad at me for nothing, and makes signs and everything!" and withthis incoherent speech Dorry began to pout--yes, actually to pout, thebrave, good Dorry, who usually was sunny and glad, "the light of thehouse, " as her Aunt Kate had been before her! Donald stared at her inastonishment. 

At this moment, one of the horses received a cut which he certainly didnot deserve, but otherwise all was quiet on the coachman's box. No onelooking up at that placid, well-dressed back would have dreamed of theSouth-Sea tempest raging under the well-padded and double-buttoned coat. 

"Dorothy, " said her uncle, with a strange trembling in his voice, "tryto control yourself. I do not blame you, my child. John, you may drivetoward home. "

Poor Dorry stifled her rising sobs as well as she could, and, sittingupright, drew as far from her uncle as the width of the seat wouldallow. But after a while, sending a sidelong glance in his direction, she edged slowly back again, and timidly leaned her head upon hisshoulder. In a moment his arm was about her, and she looked up saucily, with eyes sparkling through her tears. 

"April weather to-day, isn't it, Don?" said Uncle. Don laughed. Theuncle laughed, though not so cheerily as Don, and even Jack chuckledsoftly to himself to think that "all was well again abaft. "

"Spoiled child!" said Uncle George, patting her gently. But his heartwas full of a wild terror, and he reproached himself for many things, chief among which was that he had made it possible for the idolizedlittle girl beside him to know a moment's sorrow. 

"I must be more watchful after this, " he said to himself, "and moreeven-tempered. I have acted like a brute to-day; what wonder the littlemaid is upset. But that rascal! I shall have to warn the children, though it's an ugly business. Donald, " said he aloud, and with gentledignity, "come into the library after supper, both you and Dorothy. "

[Illustration: THE END OF THE DRIVE. ]

"Yes, sir, " said Donald, respectfully. 

And as the dear home-road came in sight, the horses quickened theiralready brisk pace, the party leaned back luxuriously and gavethemselves up to enjoyment of the clear air, the changing roadside, andthe glories of the western sky, now ablaze with the setting sun. 

No one excepting Jack saw a tall, lank figure disappearing among theshrubbery as the carriage rumbled down the avenue that led to the house. 

"Look to wind'ard, Capt'n!" whispered Jack, mysteriously, to Mr. George, while Donald was gallantly assisting Dorothy from the carriage; "there'smischief in the air. "

"What now, John?" asked Mr. George, rather patronizingly. 

"A queer craft's just hove to, sir, in the evergreen bushes as we camein, " mumbled Jack, almost under his breath, while pretending to screwthe handle of his whip. 

Mr. George scowled. "Is he there now?"

"Can't say, sir. "

"Very well; I will soon find out. " And Mr. George, with a pleasant butdecisive, "Run in, youngsters, " as Liddy opened the wide hall-door, walked briskly down the carriage-drive. 

When the door closed, he turned into the shrubbery. 

CHAPTER V. 

SUPPER-TIME. 

[Illustration]

"OH, if gentlemen only knew the nature of muffins!"

Poor Liddy! Her trig black dress and jaunty muslin cap seemed to mockher perturbed feelings, as she hovered between the kitchen and the halldoor. Donald and Dorothy, neatly brushed, --cool and pink of cheek, andvery crisp in the matter of neck-ties, --stood at one window of thesupper-room. The flaxen-haired waitress, in a bright blue calico gownand white apron, watched, tray in hand, at the other. A small wood-fire, just lighted, was waking into life on the hearth. Old Nero was dozingupon the rug, with one eye open. And all--to say nothing of themuffins--were waiting for Mr. George, whom the D's had not seen sincetheir return from the drive, half an hour before. 

When that gentleman came in he stepped briskly to his seat at the table, and, though he did not speak, his manner seemed to say: "Everything isall right. I merely came in a little late. Now for supper!" But Nero, rising slowly from the warm rug, slipped under the table, rubbedhimself sympathetically against his master's legs, and finally settleddown at his feet, quite contented to serve as a foot-stool for Donaldand Dorothy, who soon were seated one on each side of the table, whileLydia, carefully settling her gown, took her place at the largetea-tray. 

Mr. George, as the good housekeeper soon saw to her satisfaction, didappreciate the nature of muffins. 

So did Donald and Dorothy. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A FAMILY CONFERENCE. 

AFTER supper, Uncle George, Donald, and Dorothy went into the library, where they found the soft light of a shaded lamp and another cheerfulfire, --so cheerful, that Mr. George let down the windows at the top, andthe two D's were glad to go and sit on the sofa at the cooler end of thespacious room. 

"Liddy is determined that we shall not freeze before the winter setsin, " remarked Mr. George, hardly knowing how to begin the conversation. He was not the first good man who has found himself embarrassed in thepresence of frank young listeners waiting to hear him speak and sure toweigh and remember everything he may say. 

The children smiled solemnly. 

Thus began an interview which, in some respects, changed the lives ofDonald and Dorothy. 

"Liddy is a good, faithful soul, " said Uncle George. "She has been withus, you know, ever since you were babies. "

"And before too, " put in Dorry, knowingly. 

"Yes, before too, " assented Mr. George. "Some years before. "

Nero, lazing by the fire, snapped at an imaginary fly, at which the D's, glad of a chance to relieve themselves, and feeling that the interviewwas one of grave importance, indulged in a smothered laugh. 

"And Nero, poor faithful old dog, you knew us!" continued Mr. George, changing to a more cheerful tone, while Nero's tail contentedly beattime to the remark (for the good creature knew well enough that Mr. George was speaking of him); "he was hardly a year old then, thefriskiest, handsomest fellow you ever saw, and brave as a lion. "

"Did he know Aunt Kate?" asked the audacious Dorothy. 

Donald looked frightened; Uncle George coughed; and just as Dorothy, wretchedly uncomfortable, made up her mind that it was too cruel foranything, never to be able to speak of your own aunty without raising astorm, Mr. George came out of the bright light and seated himself on thesofa between the D's with an arm around each. Dorry, puzzled but almosthappy, drew as close as she could, but still sat upright; and Donald, manly boy that he was, felt a dignified satisfaction in his uncle'sembrace, and met him with a frank, questioning look. It was the work ofan instant. Dorry's startling inquiry still sounded on the firelit air. 

"Donald, " said Uncle, without replying to Dorry's question. "Let me see. You are now fourteen years old?"

"Fourteen and ten days, --nearly half a month over fourteen, " saidDorothy, promptly. "Aren't we, Donald? I'm so glad!"

Donald nodded, and Uncle placidly asked why she was glad. 

"Because twins can't boss--I mean domineer--each other. If Don was theleast bit older than me--I--me, it wouldn't be half so nice as startingfair and square. "

Here she gave a satisfied little cough, and to her great surprise felther uncle's arm immediately withdrawn. 

"Stop your nonsense, Dorothy, " said he, almost sternly, "and don'tinterrupt. "

"Now Uncle's afraid again, " thought Donald, but he felt so sorry for hissister that he said, in a tone of dignified respect: "Dorry didn't meanto be rude, Uncle. "

"No, no. Certainly not, " said that very puzzling individual, suddenlyresuming his former position, and drawing the little lady toward him. "Where were we? Oh, yes! Fourteen years and ten days, is it?"

"Yes, sir, right to a minute, " replied Donald, laughing. 

"Well, there is no hurry, I am glad to say. I have been thinking oflate, Donald, that a little boarding-school experience is a good thingfor a boy. "

Dorothy started; but she had resolved rather sullenly that people wouldhave to wait a long while before they should hear another word from her. 

"Yes, sir, " assented Donald, quickly. It would be glorious to go, hethought, and actually be a boarding-school boy, belonging to a crackbase-ball club, a debating society, perhaps even a secret society; toget boxes of fruit and cake from home, and share them with hisroom-mates; maybe have a fight or two, for a fellow must hold his own, you know;--but then how strange it would be to live without Dorry! Oh, if she only were a boy!

[Illustration: DONALD'S THOUGHTS. ]

"I'd come home on Thanksgiving and Christmas?" asked Don, following up arather lonesome feeling. 

"Oh, yes! but you're not off yet, my boy. The fact is, I did thinkseriously of sending you this autumn, and I even looked up a few goodplaces, intending to make a selection. But there's no special hurry. This boarding-school business has its uncomfortable side. It breaks up ahousehold, and makes little sisters lonesome. Doesn't it, Dorry?"

Dorry _couldn't_ speak now, though she tried, and Mr. Georgeconsiderately went on: "Besides, there's another, a very good reason, why we should wait awhile. You are needed here, Donald, just now. "

"Needed here?" thought Dorry. "I should say so!" Uncle might as wellremark that the sunshine, or the sky, or the air was needed here as tosay that Don was needed. A big tear gathered under her lashes--"Besides, she was no more his little sister than he was her little brother. Theywere just even halves of each other--so now. " And the tear went back. 

Meantime, Uncle's remarks flowed slowly on, like a deep stream passingbetween two banks--one with its sunny leaves and blossoms all astir inthe breeze, the other bending, casting its image in the stream, and sogoing on with it in a closer companionship. 

"You are needed here, Donald; but, as I said before, there is plenty oftime. And though I shall bear this boarding-school matter in mind, Icannot well spare you just now. I shall require, perhaps, some vigilanceon your part, and coolheadedness, --not that anything very serious islikely to occur; in fact, there is no reason why it should--but abrother naturally guards his sister even when no danger threatens. "

"Certainly, " said Don. 

"Humph!" thought Dorothy, "I don't want to be guarded, thank you. " But, for all that, she felt proud that Uncle should speak of her in this wayto Donald. Probably he was going to mention fire, and remind them of theinvariable rule that they must not, on any account, carry matches intothe barn, or light a bonfire anywhere without express permission. Meanwhile, Donald watched his uncle's face, following every word. 

"There is really nothing to be apprehended, " continued Uncle George, with some hesitation; "but it is important that you--that Dorothy--Ishould say--well, my children, perhaps you have observed--indeed, youspoke to-day, Dorothy, of having seen something of a person who has beenabout here several times of late. "

"Oh, yes, Uncle, " responded Dorry. 

But Donald waited to hear more. He had talked previously with his uncleabout this same person, whom he had seen more than once lounging aboutthe grounds. 

"Well, " said Mr. George, slowly, "this man, 'long and lank, ' as Dorrytruly described him, is not a very dangerous man, --at least, we'llbelieve he is not, --but he is one whom I wish you both to avoid. Hiscompany will do you no good. "

"Wouldn't it be better, Uncle, " suggested Dorry, now eager to helpmatters, "for Jack to order him off the place whenever he comes on?"

"Well, no, " said Uncle George. "After all, he may not come again. But ifhe should, I wish you to have as little to do with him as possible. "

"We could set Nero on him. Nero can't bite, but he'd scare him prettywell, " insisted Dorry, with animation. "The idea of his calling me'Sis!' the great, horrid, long--"

"There, there; that will do, " said Mr. George. "All you need do is toremember what I say. Do not fear this man. Above all, do not let himimagine that you fear him. But avoid him. Keep within the gates for thepresent. "

"O-h, Uncle!" exclaimed Dorry, in consternation, while even Donald brokeforth with a plaintive "_Both_ of us, Uncle?"

"Yes, both of you, --for a few days at least, or until I direct to thecontrary. And while out of doors, keep together. "

"We'll do that anyway, " replied Dorry, half saucily. 

"The man, " continued Mr. George, "probably will not trouble either ofyou. He is a ne'er-do-weel, whom I knew as a boy, but we lost sight ofhim long ago. I suspect he has been steadily going down for years. "

"I can't see wh--, " began the irrepressible Dorry; but she was met by afirm, "You need not see, nor try to see. Only remember what I have toldyou, and say nothing to any one about it. Now we may talk of otherthings. Oh, by the way, there was one pretty good reason for thinking ofmaking a change in schooling. Dr. Lane is going to leave us. "

"Dr. Lane going to leave!" echoed Donald, in regretful surprise. 

"Good! No more old algebra!" exclaimed Dorry, at the same time clappingher hand to her mouth. Her vivid imagination had instantly picturedrelief and a grand holiday. But second thoughts made her feel vexed withherself, especially when her uncle resumed:

"Yes, the good man told me yesterday that his cough grows steadilyworse, and his physician has ordered him to go south for the winter. Hesays he must start as soon as I can find a tutor to take his place. "

"Oh, don't let him wait a day, Uncle, " exclaimed Dorry, earnestly, --"please don't, if going south will cure him. We've noticedhis cough, haven't we, Don? We can study our lessons by ourselves, andsay them to each other. "

Some boys would have smiled knowingly at this somewhat suspiciousoutburst, but Donald knew Dorothy too well for that. She was thoroughlysincere and full of sympathy for the kind, painstaking man who, notwithstanding one or two peculiarities which she and her brother couldnot help observing, was really a good teacher. For more than a year, omitting only July and August, and Saturday holidays, he had been comingto Lakewood every week-day to instruct the two young Reeds in what hecalled the rudiments of learning. There were two visiting teachersbesides Dr. Lane, --the music-master, Mr. Penton, and MademoiselleJouvin, the French teacher. These came only twice a week, and ondifferent days, but Dr. Lane and they managed to keep the D's very busy. Mr. Reed had preferred that his nephew and niece should receive theirearly education at home; and so Donald and Dorothy thus far knew nothingof school life. 

What could be the matter with Uncle George? Again Dorothy's look andtone--especially her sudden expression of kindliness for hertutor--evidently had given her uncle pain. He looked down at her for aninstant with a piteous and (as Donald again thought) an almostfrightened expression; then quickly recovering himself, went on to tellDonald that Dorry was right. It would be best to release Dr. Lane atonce, and take the chances of obtaining a new teacher. In fact, he wouldsee the doctor the very next morning, if they would let him know whenthe lesson-hours were over. 

"Uncle!"

"Well, sir, what is it?"

"Did you go to boarding-school, when you were a boy?"

"Oh, yes! but I was older than you are now. "

"Did Aunt Kate?" asked Dorry. 

"There, there; that will do, " was the reply. Uncle George frequently hadto say, "There, there; that will do, " to Dorry. 

"Well, " she insisted timidly, and almost in a whisper, "I _have_ to askabout her, because you wasn't a girl, "--Donald, reaching behind Mr. George, tried to pull her sleeve to check the careless grammar, but hersoul had risen above such things, --"you wasn't a girl, --and I don'texpect to go to a boys' boarding-school. Oh, Uncle, I don't, I reallydon't mean to be naughty, but it's so hard, so awfully hard, to be agirl without any mother! And when I ask about her or Aunt Kate, youalways--yes, Uncle, you really do!--you _always_ get mad. Oh, no, Idon't mean to say that; but it makes you feel so dreadfully sorry, thatyou don't know how it sounds to me! You actually don't, Uncle. If I onlycould remember Mamma! But, of course, I can't; and then that picturethat came to us from England looks so--so very--"

"It's lovely!" exclaimed Donald, almost indignantly. 

"Yes, it's handsome, but I know Mamma wouldn't look that way now. It'sso pale and stiff. May be it's the big lace collar, --and even Liddycan't tell me whether it was a good likeness or not. But Aunt Kate'spicture in the parlor is so different. I think it's because it waspainted when she was a little girl. Oh, it's so sweet and natural, Iwant to climb up and kiss it! I really do, Uncle. That's why I want totalk about her, and why I love her so very much. You wouldn't speakcross to her, Uncle, if she came to life and tried to talk to you about_us_. No, I think you'd--Oh, Uncle, Uncle! What _is_ the matter? Whatmakes you look so at me!"

Before Dorry fairly knew what had happened, Donald was at his uncle'sfeet, looking up at him in great distress, and Uncle George was sobbing!Only for an instant. His face was hidden in his hands, and when helifted it, he again had control of himself, and Dorry almost felt thatshe had been mistaken. She never had seen her uncle cry, or dreamed thathe _could_ cry; and now, as she stood with her arms clasped about hisneck, crying because he had cried, she could only think, with an awedfeeling, of his tenderness, his goodness, and inwardly blame herself forbeing "the hatefullest, foolishest girl in all the world. " Glancing atDonald, sure of his sympathy, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Uncle, if I didwrong. I'll try never, never to be so--so--" She was going to say "sowicked again, " but the words would not come. She knew that she had notbeen wicked, and yet she could not at first hit upon the right term. Just as it flashed upon her to say "impetuous, " and not to care a fig ifDonald _did_ secretly laugh at her using so grand an expression, Mr. George said, gently, but with much seriousness:

"You need not reproach yourself, my child. I can see very clearly justwhat you wish to say. Don and I can rough it together, but you, poordarling, " stroking her hair softly, "need just what we cannot giveyou, --a woman's, a mother's tenderness. "

"Oh, yes, you do! Yes, you do, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, in suddengenerosity. 

"And it is only natural, my little maid, that you should long--as Donaldmust, too--to hear more of the mother whom I scarcely knew, whom, infact, I saw only a few times. Wolcott, I should say, your Papa, and shesailed for Europe soon after their marriage, and from that day wenever--"

He checked himself, and Dorry took advantage of the pause to say, timidly:

"But it wasn't so with Aunt Kate. You knew _her_, Uncle, all her life. Wasn't she sweet, and lovely, and--"

"Yes, yes! Sweet, lovely, everything that was noble and good, dear. Youcannot love her too well. "

"And Papa, " spoke up Donald, sturdily, "he was perfect. You've oftentold us so, --a true, upright, Christian gentleman. " The boy knew thisphrase by heart. He had so often heard his uncle use it, in speaking ofthe lost brother, that it seemed almost like a part of his father'sname. "And Mamma we _know_ was good, Dorry. Liddy says every one likedher ever so much. Uncle George says so too. Only, how can he talk to usabout our mother if he hardly knew her? She didn't ever live in thishouse. She lived in New York; and that made a great difference--don'tyou see?"

"Yes, " admitted Dorry, only half satisfied; "but you _would_ have knownher, Uncle George, --yes, known Mamma, and Aunty, and our Uncle Robertson[they had never learned to call that uncle by his first name]--we wouldhave known them all--no, not all, not poor dear Papa, because he neverlived to set sail from England, but all the rest, even our dear littlecousin, Delia, --oh, wouldn't she be sweet, if we had her now to love andtake care of! We should all have known each other ever so well--ofcourse we should--if the ship had landed safe. "

"Yes, my darlings, if the ship had not gone down, all would have beenvery, very different. There would have been a happy household indeed. Weshould have had more joy than I dare to think of. "

"But we have each other now, Uncle, " said Dorothy, soothingly and yetwith spirit. "It can't be so very miserable and dreadful with you andDonald and me left!"

"Bless you, my little comforter!--No. God be praised, we still have agreat deal to be thankful for. "

"Yes, and there are Liddy and Jack, and dear old Nero, " said Donald, partly because he wished to add his mite toward this more cheerful viewof things, but mainly because he felt choked, and it would be as well tosay something, if only to prove to himself that he was not giving way tounmanly emotion. 

"Oh, yes--Jack!" added Dorry. "If it were not for Jack where should wetwins be, I'd like to know!"

Said in an ordinary tone of voice, this would have sounded ratherflippant, but Dorry uttered the words with true solemnity. 

"I think of that often, " said Donald, in the same spirit. "It seems sowonderful, too, that we didn't get drowned, or at least die of exposure, and--"

Dorothy interrupted him with an animated "Yes, indeed! Such littleteenty bits of babies!"

"It does seem like a miracle, " Uncle George said. 

"But Jack, " continued Donald, warmly, "was such a wonderful swimmer. "

"Yes, and wonderful catcher!" said Dorothy. "Just think how he caughtus--Ugh! It makes me shiver to think of being tossed in the air overthose black, raging waves. We must have looked like little bundlesflying from the ship. Wasn't Jack just _wonderful_, to hold on to us ashe did, and work so hard looking for--for the others, too. Mercy! if weonly get our feet wet now, Liddy seems to think it's all over withus, --and yet, look what we stood then! Little mites of babies, soaked tothe skin, out in an open boat on the ocean all that terrible time. "

"Much we cared for that, " was Don's comment. "Probably we laughed, orplayed pat-a-cake, or--"

"Played pat-a-cake!" interrupted Dorry, with intense scorn of Donald'signorance of baby ways--"babies only six weeks old playing pat-a-cake! Iguess not. It's most likely we kicked and screamed like anything; isn'tit, Uncle?"

Uncle nodded, with a strange mixture of gravity and amusement, andDonald added, earnestly:

"Whether we cried or not, Jack was a trump. A real hero, wasn't he, Uncle? I can see him now--catching us; then, when the other boatcapsized, chucking us into the arms of some one in our boat, andplunging into the sea to save all he could, but able to get back alone, after all. " (The children had talked about the shipwreck so often thatthey felt as if they remembered the awful scene. ) "He was nearly dead bythat time, you know. "

"Yes, and nearly dead or not, if he hadn't come back, " chirped Dorothy, who was growing tired of the tragic side of Donald's picture, --"if hehadn't come back to take charge of us, and take us on board the bigship--"

"The _Cumberland_, " said Don. 

"Yes, the _Cumberland_, or whatever she was called; if the _Cumberland_had not come along the next day, and Jack hadn't climbed on board withus, and wrapped us in blankets, and fed us and so on, it wouldn't havebeen quite so gay!"

Now, nothing could have been in worse taste than the conclusion of thisspeech, and Dorothy knew it; but she had spoken in pure defiance ofsolemnity. There had been quite enough of that for one evening. 

Uncle George, dazed, troubled, and yet in some vague way inexpressiblycomforted, was quietly looking first at one speaker, then at the other, when Liddy opened the door with a significant, "Mr. Reed, sir, did youring?"

Oh, that artful Liddy! Uncle read "bed-time" in her countenance. It washis edict that half-past nine should be the hour; and the D's knew thattheir fate was sealed. 

"Good-night, Uncle!" said Donald, kissing his uncle in good, heartyfashion. 

"Good-night, Uncle!" said Dorothy, clinging to his neck just an instantlonger than usual. 

"Good-night, my blessings!" said Uncle George, reluctantly. And as heclosed the library door behind them, Nero, shut up in Liddy's room, wasbarking furiously. 

 * * * * *

Two more orderly, well-behaved young persons never left an apartment. But I must tell the truth: when they were fairly in the hall, Donaldstarted to go up stairs on the outside, holding on to the balusters, andDorry ran to the front door, in spite of Liddy's remonstrances, with afrisky, "Oh, do let me have just one breath of fresh air!"

She came back instantly, rushed past Lydia, who was slowly puffing herway up the stairs, met Donald at the first landing (he had condescendedby this time to leap over to the regulation side of the balusters), andwhispered:

"Upon my sacred word, I saw him! He's out there standing at the frontsteps!"

"Uncle ought to know it!" exclaimed Donald, turning to run down again. 

But he stopped on the next step, for Mr. George came out from thelibrary, opened the front door, and disappeared. 

 * * * * *

The two D's stole from their rooms, after Liddy bade them good-night, and sat on the top stair, whispering. 

"Why did you open your window just now, Donald?"

"Why, because I wanted to look out, of course. "

"Now, Don, I know better. You coughed, just to let Uncle know that youwere around, if there should be any trouble. You know you did. "

"Well, what if I did?" admitted Donald, unwillingly. "Hark!" and hesprang up, ready for action. "No, he's back. It's Uncle. I say, Dorry, it will come hard on us to stay on this side of the hedge, like sheep. Iwonder how long it will last. "

"Goodness knows! But he didn't say we couldn't go to the Danbys'. Isuppose that's because we can get there by going round the back way. "

"I suppose so, " assented Donald. "So long as we keep off the publicroad, it's all right. "

"How queer!"

"Yes, it _is_ queer, " said Donald. "However, Uncle knows best. "

"Dear me, how good we are, all of a sudden!" laughed Dorry; but shekissed Donald soberly for good-night, and after going to bed lay awakefor at least fifteen minutes, --a great while for her, --thinking over theevents of the day and evening. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE DANBYS. 

WHO were the Danbys?

They were the Reeds' nearest neighbors, and no two households could bemore different. In the first place, the Reeds were a small family ofthree, with four servants; the Danbys were a large family of twelve, with no servants. The Reeds had a spacious country mansion, rich oldfurniture, pretty row-boats, fine horses, carriages, and abundantwealth; the Danbys had a little house, poor old furniture, one cow, fivepigs, one home-made scow, one wheelbarrow, and no money, excepting thevery moderate income earned by the father of the family and his eldestboy. There the great contrast ended. The Danbys were thoroughlyrespectable, worthy and cleanly; the parents, kind and loving souls, could read and write, and the children were happy, obedient andrespectful. To be sure, it would have been very hard for the bestschoolmaster of the county to parse some of Mrs. Danby's fluentsentences, or to read at a glance Mr. Danby's remarkable penmanship. Butthat same learned instructor would have delighted in the cleverness ofthe sons and daughters, had he been so fortunate as to direct theirstudies. True, the poor little Danbys had enjoyed but a scant and brokenschooling; but they were sharp little things, and native wit served themwhenever reading, writing, and arithmetic failed. Indeed, the very factof their intercourse with Donald and Dorothy had done much for theirlanguage and deportment. Yet each individual, from the big brother Bendown to the latest baby, had his or her own peculiar character andstyle, which not twenty Dons and Dorothys could alter. 

It was not very difficult, after all, to remember the names of the youngDanbys; for Mr. Danby, being a methodical man, had insisted on theirbeing named in alphabetical order and that they each should have twonames, so as to give them their choice in after life. Therefore, thefirst was Amanda Arabella, --at the present stage of our story, a girl ofseventeen, with poetical gifts of her own; the second was BenjaminBuster, aged fifteen; the third, Charity Cora, dark-eyed, thoughtful, nearly thirteen, and, the neighbors declared, never seen without a babyin her arms; the fourth, Daniel David, a robust young person of eleven;the fifth, Ella Elizabeth, red-haired, and just half-past nine, as shesaid; next came Francis Ferdinand, or "Fandy, " as he was called forshort, who, though only eight, was a very important member of thefamily; next, Gregory George, who was six. And here the stock of doublenames seems to have given out; for after Master Gregory came plainlittle Helen, aged four; Isabella, a wee toddler "going on three;" andlast of all, little Jamie, "the sweetest, cunningest little baby thatever lived. " So now you have them all: Amanda Arabella, Benjamin Buster, Charity Cora, Daniel David, Ella Elizabeth, Francis Ferdinand, GregoryGeorge, Helen, Isabella, and roly-poly Jamie. If you cannot quiteremember all the children, who can blame you? Even Mrs. Danby herself, with the alphabet to help her, always had to name them upon her fingers, allowing a child to a finger, and giving Elizabeth and Fandy the thumbs. 

The stars of the family, in Donald's and Dorothy's estimation, wereBenjamin Buster, who had seen the world already, had enjoyed adventuresand hair-breadth escapes, and was now at home for the first time in fouryears; Charity Cora, whose eager, dark eyes told their own story ofpatient aspiration; and little Fandy. Mr. Danby was proud of all hischildren, though perhaps proudest of Baby Jamie because there was noknowing what the child might come to; but Mrs. Danby looked withabsolute reverence upon her eldest--Amanda Arabella. "Such a mind asthat girl has, Mr. Danby, " she would say to her husband, "it isn't forus to comprehend. She might have come just so out of a book, Amandamight. " And Mr. Danby would nod a pleased and puzzled assent, vaguelywondering how long he could manage to hold his high parental state overso gifted a creature. 

Amanda Arabella's strong points were poetry and sentiment. To be sure, she scrubbed the floor and washed the dishes, but she did these menialduties "with her head in the clouds, " as she herself had confessed toher mother. Her soul was above it, and as soon as she could, sheintended to "go somewhere and perfect herself. " This idea of goingsomewhere to perfect herself was one which she had entertained in secretfor some time, though she had not the slightest idea of where she couldgo, and in just what way she was to be perfected. She only knew that, atpresent, housework and the nine brothers and sisters were quite as muchas she could attend to, excepting at odd moments when "the poetry fitwas on her, " as her mother expressed it--"and then wild horses couldn'tstop her!"

"I can't deny, Mr. Reed, " said that proud mother to her kindneighbor, --who, on the morning after the interview with Donald andDorothy in his study, had halted at Mrs. Danby's whitewashed gate, towish her a stately "Good-morning, madam!" and to ask after herfamily, --"I can't deny, and be honest, that I'm uncommon blest in mychildren, though the Lord has seen fit to give us more than a extra lotof 'em. They're peart and sound as heart could wish, and so knowin'!Why, " she continued, lowering her voice and drawing closer to the gate, "there's my Fandy now, only eight years old, can preach 'most like aparson! It'd rise your hair with surprise to hear him. An' Ben, myoldest boy, has had such adventures, an' haps an' mishaps, as ought tobe writ out in a birogrophy. An' there's Amanda Arabella, mydaughter--well, if I only could set down the workin's o' my brain asthat girl can, I'd do! She has got a most uncommon lively brain. Why, the other day--but all this time you're standin', Mr. Reed. Won't youwalk in, sir? Well, certainly, sir, it ain't to be 'xpected you _could_take time goin' by so, as you are--Well, my 'Mandy, sir, only the otherday was a-comin' out into the shed with a pan o' dish-water, and shesees a rainbow. 'Ma!' says she, a-callin' me, 'take this 'eredish-water!' and before I knowed it, she was a writin' down with herlead-pencil the beautifullest ideas that ever was, --all about thatrainbow. In the evening, when her Pa come, I just up and showed it tohim, an' he says, says he, 'Them's the grandest thoughts I ever see putto paper!'"

"Ah!" said Mr. Reed, with an expression of hearty interest and amusementon his honest face, yet evidently ready to take advantage of the firstopportunity to go on his way. 

"Yes, indeed, " promptly assented Mrs. Danby, "and she ain't all. Ourchildren, if I _do_ say it, seem to have more brains than they've a fairright to--bein' poor folks' children, as you may say. It don't tire 'emone bit to learn: their Pa says every study they tackle gets the worstof it, --they use it up, so to speak. I dreamed th' other night I see thefour English branches, 'rithmetic, writin', readin', and hist'ry, standin' exhausted, waiting for them children to get through with them. But I see you're shifting yourself, sir, for going, and I ought to beashamed to detain you this way clacking about my own flesh and blood. I've been poorly lately, I didn't tell you, Mr. Reed" (looking at himplaintively). 

"No; indeed, I'm very sorry to hear it, " said Mr. Reed, sympathetically. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Oh, no. One o' my billerous attacks; the spine o' my back seemed togive out somehow, and I was dreadful bad for a couple o' days. But myThomas an' the children--bless their hearts!--got me up again. _You're_looking well, Mr. Reed. Good-morning, sir--good-morning!--(Sakes! hewent off so sudden I forgot). "

And thus exclaiming to herself, the dear old talker went back into thehouse. 

[Illustration: MRS. DANBY'S DREAM: THE FOUR ENGLISH BRANCHES. ]

"Forgot what, Ma?" asked Amanda, who stood in the doorway trying tothink of a rhyme for olives. 

"Why, to tell Mr. Reed about that queer kind of a man, who's justengaged to lodge with us. I don't feel like trustin' him somehow, andyet it isn't for plain folks to be refusing a real boarder who wants aplain family-table, and don't put on any airs. I told him, " shecontinued, going farther into the house, and raising her voice as sheincreased the distance between herself and Amanda, "that if ours wasn'ta family table (with ten children setting 'round it, includin' the baby, and Mr. Danby at the head), I didn't know what was. But he's to comeback in an hour or two. Where in the world to tuck him is the question. Anyhow, you'd better go up, dear, and ready brother's room for him. Ben's got two rabbit-skins tacked outside the window which'll have tocome down. Ben'll have to go in with Dan and Fandy to sleep. --Mercy!Here come the twins, 'cross-lots!--an' Fandy a preachin' there in thepump-shed!"

True enough, the twins were coming around by the back way. Theyapproached softly, and made a motion of warning to Mrs. Danby, as theydrew nearer, for they could hear Fandy Danby's voice, and wished toenjoy the fun. Mrs. Danby, smiling and nodding, pointed to a place wherethey could stand unobserved and hear the sermon. 

It was the hour for the afternoon "cleaning-up. " Eight of the littleDanbys, including Charity with Baby Jamie in her arms, had assembled towash their hands and faces at the battered green pump under the shed, where, on a long, low bench, were two yellow earthenware basins, and asaucer containing a few fragments of brown soap, while on the wall hunga roller-towel that already was on very familiar terms with Danby facesand hands. The general toilet had been rather a noisy one, owing partlyto the baby objecting to having soap in its eyes, and partly to the factthat too many required the services of the Danby roller at the sameinstant, to say nothing of Miss Helen insisting upon slapping the waterin a most unladylike way, and so splashing Master Gregory. 

This combination having brought matters to a crisis, Fandy had beeninspired to mount a small step-ladder, and, with many original gestures, address the crowd in the following fashion:--

 "CHIL'REN! I'm ashamed of you! I don't know when I've been so--so umpressed with the badness of this family. How often, my hearers, do you 'spect me to stop my dressing to extort you! I didn't mean to preach no more sermons this week, but you do behave so awful bad, I must. 

 "Now, first, don't you know speakin' saucy is a sin? _Don't_ you know it? It makes us hateful, an' it makes us cross, an' it makes people tell Ma. It ain't right for Chrisshen chil'ren to do such things. It don't never say in our Bible-lesson that folks can call peoples 'mean uglies' just for wantin' the roller. An' it don't say that a good Chrisshen child can say 'Pshaw for you!' for havin' not to make quite so much noise, which you, my beloved 'Gory, said just now to Charity. 

 "Now, we must be good an' perlite, if we want to do right and have things Chrissmas, an' if we want to be loved on earth and in heaven. (No, sir, that ain't talkin' big, and I _do_ know what I mean, too. ) I say, we must be perlite. We mussent get mad unless we can't help it. It's natural for big folks to rub our noses the wrong way when they wash our faces, an' to comb hair hard--they're born so. An' all we can do is to be patient, an' wait till we get big an' have chil'ren of our own. 

[Illustration: FANDY "PREACHES A SERMON" TO HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS. ]

 "But what I say--what I mean, what I--what I--(Now you, Gregory, give Helen back her dolly right away, or I'll come down to you!)--what I mean is, that we all ought to be good and perlite. It's wicked to be saucy. We ought to be able to stand one another. An' nudgin' is wicked, an' shovin' is wicked, an' makin' faces ain't the way to do. No more ain't bullyin', nor mockin', nor any of those things. I go in for bein' pleasant and kind, an' havin' fun fair; only, my beloved hearers, I can't do it all alone. If we'd all be good Chrisshen chil'ren, things would go better, an' there wouldn't be such a racket. 

 "Can't you cleanse your sinful hearts, my hearers?--cleanse 'em, anyhow, enough to behave? Can't you? (Stop your answerin', David; it puts me out, and, besides, you oughtn't to say that. You ought to say 'I'll try. ') I notice you ain't none of you real quiet and peaceful, unless I'm preachin', or you're eatin' something good. I also can see two people lookin' through the crack, which I think they'd better come in, as I wouldn't mind it. Now I can't extort you no more this time. "

To Fandy's great disgust, the audience applauded the conclusion of hissermon, and were about to become more uproarious than ever, when thesudden appearance of Donald and Dorothy put them upon their goodbehavior. 

"Is Ben here?" asked Donald, after the usual "How-d'ye-do's" were over, and as Fandy was taking a hasty turn at the roller-towel. 

"Don't know, " said Fandy; "he was mendin' a trap, over there, "--pointingto an enclosed corner close by the house, that had been roughly boardedover and fitted up with bench and table by Master Ben, so as to make asort of workshop. 

They all went over, accompanied by Charity Cora, and were received inBen's usual style, which consisted in simply ceasing to whistle aloud, though he still held his lips in whistling position while he proceededwith his work. 

They watched him in silence for a moment (the young Danbys, at least, knowing that they would be firmly, but not unkindly, ordered off, ifthey interfered with the business in hand), and then, to their relief, Ben drove in the last nail and laid down the hammer. 

"What's that for?--to catch yab-bits?" asked Gregory George, nicknamed'Gory by his brothers, for the fun of the thing, he was so fair-hairedand gentle. 

"No; it's to catch little boys, " answered Ben, whereat 'Gory grinned, and looked at Don and Dorry to see if they were foolish enough tobelieve it. 

"Well, why don't you act perlite to your comp'ny?" asked Fandy, muchshocked at Ben's unconscious want of ceremony. 

"Ha, ha!" laughed Ben. "Hallo, Donald!"

Dorry was softly talking to Cora, and at the same time coaxing the babyfrom its sister's arms. 

"Hallo yourself!" was Donald's quick response to Ben. "Did you have anyluck last night?"

"Yes, two! Got the skins out drying. Beauties! I say, Donald, can youspare me your gun again, if you're not going to use it ThanksgivingDay?"

"Certainly, " answered Don; "you can have it, and welcome. Tyler and Iare going to fire at a mark in the afternoon, with Uncle and the girls. But we'll use the rifle for that. "

"What girls?" asked Charity Cora, eagerly, hoping, from Donald's pluralway of putting it, that she and Ella Elizabeth possibly were to have ashare in the sport; whereat Daniel David, guessing her thoughts, answered for Donald, with a cutting, "Why, Queen Victoria and the royalprincess, to be sure. Who else could it be?"

Cora made no reply, but, feeling rather ashamed, rubbed her arms (ahabit of hers whenever the baby for the moment happened to be out ofthem), and looked at Donald. 

"Josie Manning and Ed Tyler are coming over after dinner, " said Donald. 

"I should think they'd rather come to dinner, " spoke up Ella Elizabeth, with hungry eyes. "Turkeys and things--Oh, my! Punkin pie!"

This called forth two exclamations in a breath:

_Dan. David:_ "'Punkin pie! Oh, my!' We're getting poetical. Call'Mandy, quick. Punkin pie--sky high. "

_Fandy:_ "Don't be so unproper. It's pumpkun pie. Dorothy said so. And, besides, we ought to let the comp'ny do the talking. "

"Humph! By this time, we've made them forget what they were talkin'about. "

"Not I, Charity, " laughed Donald, turning to the latest speaker. "In thefirst place, Josie and Ed didn't feel like leaving home on ThanksgivingDay till after dinner, and we two fellows are going to teach Josie andDorry to shoot straight. And" (now addressing Ben, who by this time waswedging the handle of a hammer) "as for the gun, Ben, you're alwayswelcome to it, so long as you return it in as good order as you did lasttime. You cleaned it better than I do. "

"I found the rags, " said Helen, slyly, --"ever so many. Didn't I, Ben?"

Ben nodded at her, and Helen, made happy for the whole day, ran offhugging a broken dolly in exact imitation of Charity and Baby Jamie;meanwhile her big brother, pleased at Don's compliments, remarked, "It'sa prime gun, and never fails. "

"Never fails _you_, Ben, you may as well say. It often fails me, nevermind how carefully I aim. "

"That's just it, Donald, " said Ben. "There's no good in aiming soparticular. "

"Well, what's a fellow to do?" replied Donald. "You must take aim, andby the time you get a bird well sighted, he's gone. "

"Sight? I never sight, " said Ben. "I just fire ahead. "

"You don't mean to say you shoot a bird without aiming at him?"

"Oh, well, I aim, of course; but I don't look through the sight, or anysuch nonsense. "

"I don't understand, " said Donald, doubtingly. 

"Don't you? Why, it's just this: if the bird's flying he'll go ahead, won't he? Well, you fire ahead and meet him, --that's the whole of it. You know how an Indian shoots an arrow. He doesn't look along the lineof the arrow for ten minutes, like a city archer; he decides, in aflash, what he's going to do, and lets fly. Practice is the thing. Now, when you're after a wild duck, you can aim exactly at him and he's safeas a turnip; but see a strip of water ahead betwixt the muzzle of yourgun and him, and he's a gone bird, if you fire straight. You have toallow for diving--but practice is the thing. Learn by missing. "

"Oh, that's good!" shouted Daniel David; "'learn by missing. ' I'm goingto try that plan in school after this. Don't you say so, Fandy?"

"No, I don't, " said the inflexible Fandy, while he gazed in greatadmiration at the two big boys. 

At this point, the mother appeared at the door with an empty pail ineach hand, and before she had time to call, David and Fandy rushedtoward her, seized the pails, and would have been off together for thewell, if Mrs. Danby had not said, "Let David get the water, Fandy, andyou bring me some light wood for boiling the kettle. "

"You can't boil the kettle, Ma, " called out one of the children. "Youboil the water. "

"No more you can't, " assented Mrs. Danby, with an admiring laugh. 

All this time, Dorry had been tossing the struggling baby, and finallywinning it to smiles, though every fibre in its plump little body wassquirming in the direction of Charity Cora. Meanwhile, thatmuch-enduring sister had made several pungent remarks, in a low tone, toher visitor, concerning babies in general and Jamie in particular. 

"Now you see how nice it is! He keeps up that wriggling all day. Nowit's to come to me; but when I have him, it's wriggling for thechickens, and for Mother, and for everything. And if you set him downout-of-doors he sneezes; and if you set him down in the house hescreams; and Ma calls out to know 'if I can't amuse that baby!' I totehim round from morning to night--so I do!"

Here the baby's struggles became so violent and noisy that Charity Corasavagely took him from Dorry; whereat he threw his plump little armsabout his sister's neck with such a satisfied baby-sigh that she kissedhim over and over, and looked in placid triumph at Dorothy, apparentlyforgetting that she ever had made the slightest complaint against him. 

"Have you begun with your new teacher yet?" she asked, hugging Jamie, and looking radiantly at Dorothy. 

"Oh, no!" answered Dorry. "How did you know Dr. Lane was going?"

"Ma heard it somewhere! My, don't I wish I had a teacher to come everyday and put me through! I'm just dying to learn things. But somethingalways interferes with my getting to school. There's so much to do inthe house; and now that we're to have a boarder there'll be more to dothan ever. It's nice to be useful, I s'pose, but I'm really as ignorant, Dorothy Reed, as a--as a baby" (this simile was suggested by littleJamie's busy efforts to pull off her linen collar); "why, do you know, Ican't even--"

And here the girls sauntered off together to sit down on a tree-stump, and have a good long talk, if the baby would allow it. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING. 

JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to theDanbys described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in aneighboring field, trying to catch Mr. Reed's spirited mare, "Lady, "that had been let out to have a run. He already had approached herwithout difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she hadstarted away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowedplaytime enough, was now bent on recapturing her. 

Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scamperedover to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Tandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back. 

It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, one moment standingmotionless at a safe distance from Jack, and the next, leaping about thefield, mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a defiantenjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses in the same field caughther spirit; even Don's pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge inthe adjoining lot, began frisking and capering about on his own account, dashing past an opening in the hedge as though it were as solid abarrier as the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing andshouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, in which, for a time, the mare certainly had the advantage. But what animal is proof againstits appetite? Clever little Fandy had rushed to Mr. Reed's barn, andbrought back in his hat a light lunch of oats for the mare, which he atonce bore into her presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same timeslowly backing away from her. The little midget and his hatfulsucceeded, where big man and boys had failed. The mare came cautiouslyup and was about to put her nose into the cap, when Jack's stealthy andsudden effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise away from him. But here Donald leaped forward at the other side, and caught her beforeshe had time to escape again. 

Jack was too proud of Don's quickness to appear surprised; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of the Danby boys, he took the bridlefrom the young master with an off-hand air, and led the now gentleanimal quietly towards the stable. 

But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath after her brisk run, shewas panting and tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in theharness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near. 

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "help me to get this down! I mean to have somefun. I'm going to ride that mare back to the field!"

"Not you, Miss Dorry!" exclaimed Jack. "Take your own pony, an' your ownsaddle, an' it's a go; but this 'ere mare'd be on her beam ends with youin no time. "

"Oh, no, she wouldn't, Jack! She knows me perfectly. Don't you, Lady?Oh, do, Jack! That's a good Jack. _Please_ let me! Don's there, youknow. "

Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By this time, theside-saddle, yielding to her vigorous efforts, had clattered down fromits peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of its own. 

"Won't you, Jack? Ah, _won't_ you?"

"No, miss, I won't!" said Jack, resolutely. 

"Why, Jack, I've been on her before. Don't you know? There isn't a horseon the place that could throw me. Uncle said so. Don't you remember?"

"So he did!" said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly. "The Capt'n saidthem very words. An', " glancing weakly at the mare, "she's standin' nowlike a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her sails--"

"Oh, do--_do_, Jack!" coaxed Dorry, seizing her advantage, "quick!They're all in the lot yet. Here, put it on her!"

"I'm an old fool, " muttered Jack to himself, as, hindered by Dorry'sbusy touches, he proceeded to saddle the subdued animal; "but I can'tnever refuse her nothin'--that's where it is. Easy now, miss!" as Dorry, climbing up on the feed-box in laughing excitement, begged him to hurryand let her mount. "Easy now. There! You're on, high and dry. Here"(tugging at the girth), "let me tauten up a bit! Steady now! Don't tryno capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up, Lady!--get up!"

The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly, that Jack slappedher flank gently as she moved off. 

Jog, jog went Lady out through the wide stable doorway, across the yardinto the open field. Dorry, hastily arranging her skirts and settlingherself comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been AuntKate's in the days gone by), laughed to herself, thinking how astonishedthey all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. For a moment sheplayfully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then she looked up. 

Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had remained in the field! Heand the little Danbys were listening to one of Ben's stories ofadventure. Even the two horses and Don's pony were quietly nosing thedry grass in search of green tufts. 

"I don't care, " she murmured gayly, overcoming her disappointment. "Imean to have a ride, any way. Get up, Lady!"

Lady _did_ get up. She shook her head, pricked up her ears, and startedoff at a beautiful canter across the fields. 

"How lovely!" thought Dorry, especially pleased at that moment to seeseveral figures coming toward her from the Danby yard; "it's just likeflying!"

Whether Lady missed her master's firm grip upon the rein, or whether sheguessed her rider's thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts andhurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be known. Certain it is thatby the next moment Dorry, on Lady's back, was flying inearnest, --flying at great speed round and round the field, but withnever an idea of falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle andJack wouldn't be pleased if they knew the exact character of the ride. Next came a sense of triumph, because she felt that Don and the restwere seeing it all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was off, her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping her seat fordear life. 

Lady's canter had become a run, and the run soon grew into a series ofleaps. Still Dorry kept her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearlessrider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the prospect of atussle with Lady. But as the speed increased, Dorry found herselfgrowing deaf, dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if she couldonly hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not consent to beconquered before "those boys. "

Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every leap. There was nomerry shouting now. The little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and Charitywas wringing her hands. 

"Oh, oh! She'll be thrown!" cried the girls. 

[Illustration: DONALD TO THE RESCUE. ]

"Not a bit of it!" insisted Donald. "I've seen Dot on a horse before. "But his looks betrayed his anxiety. "See! the mare's trying to throw hernow! But she can't do it--she can't do it! Dot understands herself, Itell you, --Whoa-o!--Let me go!" and, breaking from Ben, he tore acrossthe field, through the opening in the hedge, and was on his pony's backin a twinkling. How he did it, he never knew. He had heard Dorryscream, and somehow that scream made him and his pony one. Together, they flew over the field; with a steady, calm purpose, they cut acrossLady's course, and soon were at her side. Donald's "Hold on, Dot!" wasfollowed by his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that shecertainly would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasping hispony's mane with one hand, he clutched Lady's bridle with the other. Themare plunged, but the boy's grip was as firm as iron. Though almostdragged from his seat, he held on, and the more she struggled, theharder he tugged, --the pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eagersympathy with Donald's every movement. Jack and Ben were now tearingacross the field, bent on rescue; but they were not needed. Don wasmaster of the situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded withsuperb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the pony was rubbing its noseagainst her steaming side. 

"Good for you, Dot!" was Donald's first word. "You held onmagnificently. "

Dorothy stroked Lady's hot neck, and for a moment could not trustherself to look up. But when Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from thesaddle, and she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and wouldhave fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her white face, sprung to theground just in time to support her. 

"Shiver my timbers!" growled Jack, "if ever I let youngsters have theirway again!" But his eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproachand satisfaction as he looked at Dorry. 

"Oh, is she hurt?" cried Charity, who, having stumbled with the baby inher rush across the field, was gathering up the screaming little fellow, catching her balance, and scrambling onward at the same time--"Is shehurt?"

"Is she hurt?" echoed the others, pressing forward in breathlessexcitement. 

"Not hurt at all, " spoke up Donald, stoutly, as, still supporting hissister, he saw the color coming back to her cheek, --"not hurt one bit!It's only been a splendid ride for her, and a jolly scare for us; but itis high time we were in the house. All's right, Jack. Good-by, everybody! We'll skip along home, now. "

CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH SOME WELL-MEANING GROWN FOLK APPEAR. 

MCSWIVER--better known as "Michael" by the Manning family, or, moredescriptively, as "Mr. Manning's Mike, " at the village store, but alwaysas "old Mr. McSwiver, " by our Liddy--was about to enjoy an evening out. This was a rare occurrence; for Mr. McSwiver, though he had advertisedhimself as having "no incumbrance, " was by no means an ease-taking man. He united in his august person the duties of coachman, butler, waiter, useful man, and body-servant to Mr. Manning. Seeing him at early dawn, blacking his employer's boots, or, later, attending to the lighterduties of the coachhouse (he had a stable-boy to help him), one couldnever imagine the grandeur of that same useful individual when dressedin his best. 

"A hall-door-and-waitin' suit brings out a man's fine points if he hasany, so it does; and it's nowise surprisin' that parties callin' afternightfall should be secretly mistakin' me for the boss himself, " thoughtMr. McSwiver, critically regarding his well-scrubbed countenance in thehall mirror, before starting to make a formal call on his much-admiredfriend, Liddy. 

Half an hour afterward he was stalking from Mr. Reed's garden-gatetoward the village store, talking to himself, as usual, for lack ofbetter company:

[Illustration: McSWIVER. ]

"Humph! Queen Victorior herself couldn't be more high and mighty! andall because her young lady's gone an' had a runaway on horseback! 'Isshe kilt?' says I. 'Mercy, no, ' says she; 'but I shall be specialengaged all the ev'nin', Mr. McSwiver, ' says she; and with that shefastens her eyes on me (mighty pooty ones they are, too!) a-noddin'good-by, till I was forced, like, to take meself off. Miss Josephineherself couldn't 'a' been grander to one of them young city swells atthe 'cademy! Och, but it beat all!"

Meantime, Liddy had quite forgotten his sudden nipped-in-the-bud visit. Old Mr. McSwiver was well enough in his own way, and at a fitting time, for he knew her cousins the Crumps; but she could not think of societymatters so soon after her darling Miss Dorry had been in danger. 

"Did you ever know it turn out any other way?" said she confidentiallyto Donald, on that same evening, --after Dorothy, somewhat subdued bydreadful remarks on the subject of nervous shocks and internal injuries, had retired earlier than usual, --"now, did you, Master Donald? There Mr. G. Had been taking extra precautions to keep her safe, and, under amerciful Providence, it was only by the skin of that dear child's teeththat she wasn't sent to a better world! And, do you know, Master Donald, there's been serious goings on here too?"

"Goings on? What _do_ you mean, Liddy?"

"Why, that horrid man came--the very same that looked in at mysitting-room window--and Mr. George opened the door his own self, andspoke very severe to him, and 'I cannot see you to-night, ' says he. 'Come on next Monday evening, at half-past nine, and not before. ' Iheard him say those very words. "

Donald looked at her anxiously, but made no reply. 

"There's no harm in my telling you, " continued Liddy, softly, "becauseyou and Mr. G. And me know about him. "

"No, I don't, Liddy. I haven't heard half, and you know it!" wasDonald's puzzled and indignant rejoinder. "This being let half-way intoa secret doesn't suit me. If Uncle were not busy this evening, I'd go inand speak to him about that fellow at once. "

"Oh, hush! please do, " whispered Liddy, hurriedly. "Miss Dorry'll hearyou. I only meant that you and I both know that he's been hanging aboutthese parts for a week or more, and that his presence doesn't bode anygood. Why, you noticed it before anybody else. Besides, I want her tosleep. The darling child! She's feeling worse than she lets on, I'mafraid, though I rubbed her back with liniment to make sure. Pleasedon't talk any more about things now. To-morrow I'll ask your uncleif--"

"No, you needn't, thank you, Liddy, " interrupted Don, "I'll speak to himmyself. "

"Oh my! When?"

"I don't know. When I get ready, " he replied, laughing in spite ofhimself at Lydia's hopeless way of putting the question. "It is sure tocome soon. I've had pulls at this tangle from time to time withoutgetting a fair hold of it. But I intend to straighten it out beforelong, or know the reason why. "

"Sakes! What an air he has, to be sure!" thought Liddy, as Donald movedaway. "The fact is, that boy's getting big. We older folks'll think ofthem as children to the end of our days; but it's true as sky and water. And it's even more so with Miss Dorry. Those twins are getting older, assure as I live!"

 * * * * *

Monday evening came, and with it the "long, lank man. " He did not comebefore half-past nine; and then, to Lydia's great disappointment (forshe had rather enjoyed the luxury of dreading this mysterious visit), herang the door-bell like any other visitor, and asked, familiarly, forMr. Reed. 

"Mr. Reed is at home, sir, " responded Liddy, in a tone of colddisapprobation. 

"All right. You're the housekeeper, I s'pose?"

Trembling within, but outwardly calm, silent, and majestic, Liddy threwopen the study-door, and saw Mr. Reed rise to receive his guest. 

The good woman's sitting-room was directly under the study. Consequently, the continuous sound of voices overhead soon becamesomewhat exasperating. But she calmed herself with the thought that Mr. George knew his own business. It was evident that he had something veryimportant to talk over with "that person;" and if, in her desire to knowmore, a wild thought of carrying in glasses and a pitcher of water _did_enter her head, it met with such a chilling reception from Liddy'sbetter self that it was glad to creep away again. 

This, then, was why Lydia, busily engaged at her little sewing-table, was right glad, late as it was, to see Mr. Jack's shining face andnewly-combed locks appear at the sitting-room door. 

"Hullo, messmate! My service to you, " was that worthy's salutation. 

"Good evening, sir, " said Lydia, severely. "My name is Blum--Miss LydiaBlum, though you've known it these twelve years, and been told of ittwenty times as often. "

"Miss Blum, then, at your service, " growled Jack, bowing very low, andstill remaining near the door. "It struck me, Mistress Blum, that a chapfrom the fo'castle might drop into your pretty cabin for a friendly chatthis fine evening. "

"Yes, indeed, and welcome, " responded the pacified Miss Blum. "Take aseat, Mr. Jack. "

He always was "Mr. Jack, " evenings, and she, "Miss Blum, " each enjoyingthe other's society all the more because of the mutual conviction thathe was no ordinary coachman, and she was far from being an every-dayservant. Kassy, the red-cheeked housemaid, and Norah, the cook, feltthis; and though treated kindly by both dignitaries, they accepted theirposition, knowing well that they were not important members of thefamily, as Jack and Lydia Blum felt themselves to be. 

"Mr. Jack, " spoke Lydia, suddenly, "do you know who is up stairs?"

"Ay, ay, ma'am. "

"Did you come on that account?"

Here Jack looked knowing, and said she must not question the man on thelook-out. 

"Not that I've had even a hint of such a thing from the Capt'n;" addedJack, as his companion nodded approvingly; "but your good sailor looksto the scupper before the ship fills--which doesn't apply in partic'lar, but it has its meaning, nevertheless. Young parties turned in, yet?"

"Master Donald and Miss Dorothy have retired, Mr. Jack, " corrected MissBlum, loftily. "That is, I presume so. At any rate, they are in theirrooms, bless them!"

"Bless 'em again!" echoed Mr. Jack, heartily, ignoring the reproof. "Asmarter, smilinger pair of beauties never came in my range on sea orland. There's Master Donald, now, with the spirit of a man-o'-war in hisboy's hull. My, but he's a fine one! And yet so civil and biddable!Always full set when there's fun in the air. Can't tell you, MistressBlum, how I dote on that 'ere boy. Then there's Miss Dorothy, --thetrimmest, neatest little craft I ever see. It seemed, t'other day, thatthe deck was slippin' from under me, when I see that child scudding'round the lot on Lady's back. You couldn't 'a' told, at first, whethershe was a-runnin' away with Lady, or Lady a-runnin' away with her. Butdidn't the skeer follow mighty quick! I tell you the wind blew fourquarters to once fur a spell, but afore I could get there Master Donaldhad her. Whew! It was mirac'l'us! Never see such a boy--no, nor girlneither--as them two twins!"

"Nor I, " said Liddy, fervently. 

"And what babbies they were!" proceeded Jack. "I can see 'em now, as Ifirst saw 'em after the wreck, --poor, thin, pinched mites, 'mostsneezin' their little heads off. And then, when you took hold on 'em, Mistress Blum, with your tender care, night an' day, day an' night, always studyin' their babby naturs so partic'lar and insistin' upontheir havin' their grog from one tap--"

"Mr. Jack, I'm ashamed of you! How often I've requested you not to putit that way! Milk from one cow is a common-sense rule. Every one knowsthat babies brought up by hand must be treated just so particular. Well, they throve on it, didn't they?"--her eyes kindling. 

"Throve, my hearty?--ahem; beg parding! Throve! Why, they just bounded!I never see anything like it! The brightest, liveliest little pair o'sea-gulls I ever set eyes on; an' grow? _Grow_, Miss Blum? Well, throwme to the sharks if ever I see anything grow like them babbies!"

"Didn't they!" exclaimed Miss Blum, so happy in recalling her successwith the "dear, darling little D's" that she quite forgot to check Mr. Jack's inelegance "Ah, many a time I used to stand and wonder at themwhen I should have been workin'! It seemed to me as if they improvedhourly. Why, do you know, Mr. Jack--"

A bell rang violently, as if some one were in trouble. 

[Illustration: "I USED TO STAND AND WONDER AT THEM, WHEN I SHOULD HAVEBEEN WORKIN'. "]

"It's the master!" cried Liddy, and as she sprang up the stairs, Jackfollowed her rapidly and lightly on tiptoe. 

But it was not Mr. George at all. When Liddy hastily opened the librarydoor, with a "Did you ring, sir?" and Mr. Reed responded with asurprised "No, thank you!" while the visitor coolly stared at her, thegood woman ran up to the second story to inquire further, and Jack wentdown again, whistling softly to himself. 

Lydia found Donald in tribulation. He had remained up to write a letterto a friend at boarding-school, and somehow had managed to upset hisinkstand. His attempts to prevent serious damage had only increased themischief. A pale but very large ink-stain stared up at him from the wetcarpet. 

"De-struction!" exclaimed Lydia, as, standing at the open door, she tookin the situation at a glance. "If you'd only rubbed it withblotting-paper the instant it happened, " she continued, kneeling uponthe floor, and rubbing vigorously with a piece that she had snatchedfrom the table, "there wouldn't have been a trace of it by this time. Sakes!" glancing at the fine towel which Donald had recklessly used, "ifyou haven't ruined _that_ too! Well, " she sighed, slowly rising with ahopeless air, "nothing but sour milk can help the carpet now, and Ihaven't a drop in the house!"

"Never mind, " said Donald; "what's a little ink-stain? You can't expecta bachelor's apartment to look like a parlor. I'll fling the rug overthe place--so!"

"Not now, Master Donald. Do wait till it dries!" cried Lydia, checkinghim in the act, and laughing at his bewildered look. She ran down stairswith a half-reproachful "My, what a boy!"--while Donald, carefullyputting a little water into the inkstand, to make up for recent waste, went on with his letter, which, it happened, was all about affairs notimmediately connected with this story. 

CHAPTER X. 

WHICH PRESENTS A FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. REED ANDHIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 

"HOPE the young folks are at home, " remarked the "long, lank man, " withan off-hand air of familiarity, comfortably settling himself in anarm-chair before the smouldering fire, and thrusting out his ungainlyfeet as far as possible. "Would be glad to make their acquaintance. "

"My nephew and niece will not be down again this evening, sir, " was thestiff reply. 

"Ah? Hardly past nine, too. You hold to old-fashioned customs here, Iperceive. 'Early to bed, ' etcetera, etcetera. And yet they're nochickens. Let me see; I'm thirty-nine. According to my reckoning, theymust carry about fourteen years apiece by this time. Dorothy looks it;but the boy seems younger, in spite of his big ways. Why not sit down, George?"

"Dorothy!--George!" echoed Mr. Reed's thought, indignantly. But with astern resolve to be patient, he seated himself. 

"Look here, George, as this is likely to be a long session, let's have alittle more of a blaze here. I got chilled through, waiting for thatdoor to open. Ah, that's something like!"

Meanwhile this cordial person, carefully selecting suitable pieces fromthe wood-basket on the hearth, and rearranging the fire, had seized thebellows and begun to blow vigorously, nearly shutting up his longfigure, like a big clasp-knife, in the act. 

"Excuse my making myself at home, " he continued, jauntily poking a smalllog into place with the bellows, and then brushing his seedy trouserswith his hand; "it was always my style. Most men that's been knockedabout all their lives get shy and wary. But that's not Eben Slade. Well, when are you going to begin?"

"I am ready now, Mr. Slade. "

"Pshaw! Don't Mr. Slade me. Call me Eben, plain Eben. Just as Kate did. "

Mr. Reed's face flushed painfully. 

"See here, George, " the visitor went on, suddenly changing his sportivestyle to a manner that was designed to appear quite confidential andfriendly, --"see here, I don't want to quarrel with you nor any otherman. This here is just a chat between two almost relatives--sort ofleft-handed brothers, you know, and for my--"

"Slade!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, savagely, rising from his chair, but atonce seating himself again, and speaking with forced calmness: "While Ihave allowed you this interview, I must request you to understand, nowand for all time, as you have understood very plainly heretofore, thatthere can be no connection or implied relationship between us. Foryears we have been as strangers, and from this night must remain so!"

"Ex--actly!" assented Slade, cheerily--"the kind of strangers two chapsnaturally would be, having the same sister--my sister by blood, yours byadoption. "

Certainly this was a strong point with Mr. Slade, for he leaned forwardand looked boldly into the other's face, as he finished the sentence. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Reed, with a solemn dignity, "precisely such strangersas the scape-grace brother of a noble girl must be to those who rescuedthis girl in her earliest childhood, sheltered her, taught her, honoredand loved her as true brothers should, and to whom she clung with all asister's fondness and loyalty. "

"Pre--cisely!" observed Mr. Slade, with a mocking air of being deeplyimpressed. "Go on. "

"You know the conditions under which you were adopted by Squire Hinsley, and Kate was adopted by my father, when you were left orphans, homeless, destitute--"

"Thank you. You are right. Quite destitute; I may say desperatelydestitute; though as I was six years of age at the time, and Kate buttwo, I have forgotten the painful particulars. Proceed. "

"You know well, " continued Mr. Reed, with quiet precision, "theagreement signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of witnesses, between my parents and John Hinsley on the one side, and your uncle andlawful guardian, Samuel Slade, on the other. The adoption was absolute. Kate was to have no legal claim on John Hinsley or his family; and youwere to have none upon my father and his family. She was to be to myfather, in all respects but birth, his own child, --his, Henry Reed's, tosupport and educate, sharing the fortune of his own children during hislife, and receiving an equal share of his estate at his death; all ofwhich was literally and faithfully fulfilled. And you were adopted byJohn Hinsley under similar conditions, excepting that they were, infact, more favorable. He and his wife were childless, and rich inworldly goods; and they agreed to shelter and educate you--in fact, solong as you continued to obey and honor them, to treat you in allrespects as their son and heir. You know the sequel. You had a pleasanthome, tender care, and conscientious training; but, in spite of all, youwere lazy, worthless, treacherous, --a source of constant grief andanxiety to the good pair who had hoped to find in you a son to comforttheir old age--"

"Thank you, again!" exclaimed Eben Slade; "I always liked frankness. "

"In time, and with good cause, they discarded you, " continued Mr. Reed, without noticing the interruption, "and my father, for Kate's sake, didall in his power to win you to a decent life, but in vain. Later, indire want and trouble, when even your worthless companions threw youoff, you appealed to me, and I induced Mr. And Mrs. Hinsley to give youone more trial. But you fell into bad company again and ran away, deserting your adopted parents just when they were beginning to trustyou. Your subsequent course I do not know, nor where you have been fromthat day to this. I only know that, although during your boyhood youwere free to visit your sister, you never showed the slightest interestin her, nor seemed to care whether she were living or dead. Even when webrought you together, you were cold and selfish in your treatment ofher, moved by a jealous bitterness which even her trustful love for youcould not dispel. These are disagreeable truths, but I intend that weshall understand each other. "

"So I see, " muttered Eben. 

"Meantime, " continued Mr. Reed, in a different tone, and almost as if hewere talking to himself and had forgotten the presence of his visitor, "Kate grew in sweetness, in truth and nobility of nature; grew into astrong, beautiful girlhood, honored by all, and idolized by her newparents and by her two brothers Wolcott and myself. Bearing our namefrom her infancy, and coming with us, soon after, into this newneighborhood as our only sister, her relationship never wasquestioned--"

Eben Slade had been listening in sullen patience, but now he asked, quickly:

"Do they, do the youngsters--"

"My brother's children?" asked Mr. Reed. 

"Well, your brother's children, we'll say; do _they_ know that she wasadopted by their grandparents, that she was not their ownflesh-and-blood aunt?"

"They think of her always as the beloved sister of their father andmyself, as she virtually was, " replied Mr. Reed. "From the first, thecustom of our household was to consider her purely as one of the family;Kate herself would have resented any other view of the case. Therefore--"

"Therefore the children have been kept in the dark about it, " exclaimedEben Slade, exultingly, as though it were his turn now to utter plaintruths. 

"The question has never been raised by them. They were hardly more thansix weeks old when they were brought to this house; and as they grewolder, they learned to know of her and love her as their Aunt Kate. Ifever they ask me the question direct, I shall answer it. Till then Ishall consider Kate Reed--I should say Mrs. Kate Robertson--as my sisterand their aunt. "

"And I likewise shall continue to consider her as _my_ sister, with yourpermission, " remarked Eben, with a disagreeable laugh. 

"Yes, and a true sister she would have been. The letters which she wroteyou during your boyhood, and which you never answered, showed herinterest in your welfare. "

"If she had known enough to put money in them, now, " sneered Eben Slade. "I was kept down in the closest way, and a little offering of that kindmight-- But that's neither here nor there, and I don't see the drift ofall this talk. What _I_ want to know--what in fact I came for, and whatI intend to keep coming for, is to see her will. "

"Her will?" asked Mr. Reed with surprise, and in an unconscious tone ofrelief, for he had feared a much more serious demand. 

"Yes, now you've hit it! Her adopted parents were dead. She hadinherited one-third of their estate. With such a fortune as that, shemust have left a will. Where is it? I want to know what became of thatmoney, and why you withheld--"

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Reed, sorely tempted to lay hands on thefellow, and thrust him from the house. "No insolence, sir!"

Just then Lydia opened the door, and as we already know, vanished assoon as she learned her presence had not been called for. 

"What I want to know"--began Eben again, in a high key. 

"Not so loud, " said Mr. Reed, quietly. 

His visitor's voice dropped, as, thrusting out his elbows and resting ahand on each arm of his chair, he started afresh:

"So Miss Kate Reed, as she called herself, and as you called her, neverwrote me again after the old people died, eh?"

"Never" was uttered so significantly that his listener responded with aquick, "Well! what do you mean?"

"What do _you_ mean?" echoed Slade with a darkening face. "Why didn'tshe ever write to me afterward?"

This was a bit of acting designed to mislead; for Kate _had_ writtenagain, and at that moment a yellow, worn letter, fourteen years old, wastucked snugly away in the visitor's pocket. And it was on the strengthof this same letter that he hoped yet to obtain heavy favors from GeorgeReed. Eben knew well enough what had become of the money, but, for somecunning reason of his own, chose for the present to plead ignorance. 

"I will ask you a question in return, " said Mr. Reed. "Why, if you tookso keen an interest in your sister's fortune, did you not apply to melong ago for information?"

"Because, " replied Eben Slade, boldly, "I had my reasons. I knew themoney was safe; and I could bide my time. "

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, "do you pretend to be ignorant of the factthat, two years after my sister Kate's marriage, she started with herhusband and baby to return to America, absolutely penniless?"

"Then, how could they pay for their passage?" asked Eben;--but meetingMr. Reed's eyes, he went on in an injured tone, "I know nothing but whatyou choose to tell me. True, you forgot to advertise for me to put in anappearance and hear of something to my advantage, but I supposed, verynaturally, that coming here I should learn that Kate had left me a shareof her fortune as a matter of course, and then I'd be able to go backand settle myself respectably in the far West. I may as well tell you Ihave a wife somewhere out there, and if I had means to buy up a splendidmining property which can be had now for a mere song, I'd just buy itclean and settle down to a steady life. "

During this speech, Eben Slade's expression of face had become so veryfrank and innocent that Mr. Reed's conviction began to waver. He hadfelt sure that Slade remembered well enough having long ago written himtwo letters--one asking for information concerning Kate's property, theother bemoaning the fact that it was all lost, and appealing to him formoney. But now it seemed evident that these documents, still in Mr. Reed's good keeping, had quite escaped his visitor's memory. 

"I don't want to go to law about this thing, " continued Slade, slowly, as if to demand closer attention, "especially as it would stir up yourhome affairs for the public benefit; and so, as I say, I hope to settlethings quietly. If I only had what ought to be coming to me, I wouldn'tbe here at all. It would be lonesome for my many friends in this favoredspot, but I should be far away, making a man of myself, as they say inthe books. "

"What is all this to me?" said Mr. Reed, coldly. "You have had youranswer concerning Mrs. Robertson's property. Have you any more questionsto ask? It is getting late. "

"Well, yes, a few. What about the wreck? No, let's hear from the date ofthe marriage. " And Mr. Slade, inwardly surprised at Mr. Reed's patience, yet unable to forego the luxury of being as familiar and pert aspossible, settled himself to listen to the story which Mr. Reed hadpermitted him to come and hear. 

"They sailed, " began that gentleman, "early in--"

Slade, leaning back in his easy-chair, waved his hand with a sprightly, "Beg pardon! Go back a little. This Robertson--"

"This Robertson, " said Mr. Reed, as though it quite suited him to goback, "was a stranger to me, a friend of the lady whom my brotherWolcott afterward married. Indeed, Kate formed his acquaintance whilevisiting at this lady's home in New York. He was a fascinating, handsomeman, of a visionary turn, and with extravagant tastes, --but without agrain of business capacity. "

"Like myself, " interrupted the listener, with an ugly attempt at asmile. 

"From the first I opposed the marriage, " continued Mr. Reed; "but thepoor girl, reasonable in everything else, would listen neither toargument nor to appeal. She was sure that in time we would know him andbelieve in him as she did. I would not even attend the wedding, whichtook place at her friend's house; though, by the terms of my father'swill, and very much against our judgment, my brother Wolcott and myself, who were her guardians up to the date of her marriage, gave up to herunconditionally one-third of the family estate on her wedding-day. Theresult was as we had feared. They sailed immediately for England, andthere, he entered into various wild speculations, and in less than twoyears the little fortune was utterly gone. "

"Can you prove it?" interrupted Mr. Slade, suspiciously. 

"Meantime, " said Mr. Reed, looking at him as though he were a viciousspaniel, "my brother had married, and had gone with his bride to Europe, intending to remain two years. In a twelvemonth his wife became themother of twins, a boy and a girl, and before two weeks had passed theirfather was stricken with fever, and died. News then came to me, not onlyof my brother's death, but also that my sister Kate had becomedestitute, and had been too proud to let us know of her misfortunes, andfinally, that at the time the letter was written, she and her husband, with their baby daughter, then only three weeks old, were living solelyon the bounty of Wolcott's widow. 

"There was but one thing to be done. The widow was broken-hearted, totally unable to attend to her business affairs, and Kate's husband, Mr. Robertson, was the last man whom I could trust to do it for her. Buthe at least could accompany the party to America, and I sent word forboth families to come as soon as they could safely bring the threebabies; and charged Mr. Robertson to leave nothing undone which couldtend to their comfort and safety on the voyage. 

"They sailed--" Here Mr. Reed paused, bracing himself for the remainderof the recital, which he had resolved should be complete and full. Hehad at hand legal papers proving that his adopted sister Kate, at thetime of her marriage, had received her rightful third of his father'sestate; but he did not feel in any way compelled to show these to hisunpleasant visitor. 

Eben Slade for an instant respected the silence. But he had a point togain. 

"Yes, " said he, "but this is sudden news as to the loss of her property. I don't understand it. She must at some time have made a will. Show medocuments!"

"There was no will, " said Mr. Reed. "As for documents, "--here he arose, walked to a high, old-fashioned secretary, unlocked a drawer, andproduced two letters, --"you may recognize these!" and he unfolded theyellow, time-worn sheets before Mr. Slade's astonished eyes--astonished, not that they were his own letters, betraying his full knowledge of hissister's loss of property, but that Mr. Reed should be able to producethem after all these fourteen years. 

"See here!" said that gentleman, showing him one of the letters, andpointing to these heartless words in Slade's own handwriting: "_It'sterrible news; for now that Kate's money is gone, as well as herself, Iknow there's nothing more to look for in that quarter. _"

Slade scrutinized the passage with well-feigned curiosity. But he hadhis revenge ready. 

"Seeing as you've a fancy for old letters, George, may be this 'ere willinterest you. "

Was it magic? Another yellow letter, very much soiled and worn, appearedto jump from Slade's pocket and open itself upon the table before Mr. Reed's eyes. He recognized Kate's clear, bright penmanship at a glance. 

"Read it, " said Eben, standing close, and still keeping hold of theletter. 

And Mr. George read:

 "_In my extremity, Eben, I appeal to you. By this time you may be yourself again, turned from all evil ways. I married against my brother George's consent--and he has as good as cast me off. We are penniless; my husband seems completely broken down. He may not live long. My brother Wolcott has just died. I am too proud to go to his widow, or to my brother George. Oh, Eben, if I starve, if I die, will you take my baby-girl? Will you care for her for our dead mother's sake?_"

"I'd have done my duty by that baby, " said Eben Slade, slowly foldingthe letter, and looking with hateful triumph into Mr. Reed's pale face. "I'd have had my rights, too, and you never should have seen hide norhair of the child if it had lived. I wish it had; she'd 'a' been handyabout the house by this time, and my wife, whose temper is none of thebest, would have had some one to scold besides me, as well as some oneto do the chores. What have you got belonging to the child? What's hersis mine. Where's the baby-clothes, --the things that Robertson's peoplemust have sent on afterward from England?"

"There was nothing sent on afterward, " replied Mr. Reed, with a stunnedlook; but in an instant, he turned his eyes full upon Slade, causing themiserable creature to cringe before him:

"If you had the soul of a man, I could wish for your sake that somethingbelonging to the lost baby had been saved; but there was nothing. Mysister was not herself when she wrote that letter. She was frantic withgrief and trouble, else she would have known that I would forgive andcherish her. And now, sir, if you are satisfied, I bid you goodevening!"

"I am _not_ satisfied, " said Eben doggedly. "There's more to be settledyet. Where is the man who saw the shipwreck?"

Mr. Reed opened the window. Seizing something that hung there, he blew ashrill whistle, then lowered the sash and sat down. 

Neither spoke a word. Quick steps sounded upon the stairs. The dooropened. 

"Ay, ay, Capt'n!" said Jack. Nero stood beside him, growling. 

CHAPTER XI. 

JACK. 

JACK and Nero entered the library, where Mr. Reed and Eben Slade satwaiting. 

The entrance of the sailor-coachman had a peculiar effect upon EbenSlade. It gave him a drowsy appearance. Some men have that look whenthey are specially on their guard. 

"Did you want me, Capt'n?" asked Jack, after standing a few seconds andreceiving no orders. 

"No; _I_ want you, " spoke up Eben Slade, in a bold yet uneasy tone. "Let's see if you can answer a few plain questions. "

Jack glanced inquiringly at Mr. Reed; then, brightening, replied toSlade as to one not at all worthy of his respect:

"Questions? P'raps. Reel 'em out. "

It was plain from the start that, if the sailor-coachman could have hisown way, Eben Slade would get but little information out of him. He haddespised the fellow as a "skulker, " from the moment he had seen himsneaking about the grounds like a spy, as he truly suspected him to be. 

"So, " began the questioner grandly, as if to awe his man into a becomingdeference, "you are the person who, according to Mr. Reed, rescued thetwins? How--I mean in what way, by what means--did you save them?"

"Mostly by tryin', your honor, " replied Jack, sullenly. 

Eben Slade looked vexed, but he returned blandly:

"Undoubtedly so. But I want the details of the saving. Let us hear fromthe beginning. "

"There warn't any beginning, " growled Jack. "The first we knew about it, it was all over. "

"Well, but you had some part in the wreck, hadn't you? What was it?"

"I didn't have no part in it, bless you, " replied Jack, with grim humor, "it did itself. "

"Clever tar!" exclaimed Mr. Slade, in mock admiration, inwardly resolvedto conciliate the man, if possible, by letting him have his own way fora while. "Well, I was on the wrong tack, as you sailors would say. Now, to start fair, can you tell me what happened after the first shock ofthe shipwreck was over? Which of the children did you pick up first?"

"Sorry I can't oblige you, " said Jack; "but you see it was night, and, besides, I'd forgot my specs. "

"Have you any recollection whatever on that point, Jack?" asked Mr. Reed, though he well knew what the answer must be. 

"No, sir, " replied Jack, respectfully; but instantly throwing a tone ofpathetic appeal into his voice: "Why, Capt'n, look a' here! It's hardseein' any diff'rence between young babbies in broad sunlight and asmooth sea; but down in the ragin' waves, an' in the night time, now?It ain't in reason. "

Mr. George nodded, and Slade, after thinking a moment, asked mildly:

"Did you happen to know any of the passengers, Jack?"

"When a cove hails from the fo'castle, your honor, he ain't apt to beover intimate in the cabins; but I knew one lady aboard, if I do sayit. "

"Ah, " exclaimed Eben Slade, "now we have it! You knew one lady aboard. _Which_ of the ladies was this?"

"It was the stewardess, sir, and she was drownded. "

"And you knew no other lady, eh?"

"Can't say, sir. Opinions differ as to knowin'; what some might callbein' acquainted another might call otherwise, " said Jack, with ascrape, and a light touch at his forelock. 

"Right!" pursued Eben Slade. "Now did you happen to be 'acquainted, orotherwise, ' with either Mrs. Reed or Mrs. Robertson?"

"I was 'otherwise, ' your honor, with every lady on the ship, exceptin'the party I told you was drownded. "

"Then you didn't know Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Robertson apart, am I tounderstand?" asked Slade, sharply. 

"Can't say, sir. Never saw 'em apart. "

"Ah! They were always together, then; now we're getting it. Could youtell which was the mother of the twins?"

"_Could_ I tell which was the mother of the twins? I didn't know halfthe passengers from t'other half, let alone knowin' which babbybelonged to which mother. Why, man, boxin' the compass back'ard would benothin' compared to that. All I can tell you is we was 'most all hoveout into the sea, high and low together. "

"I'd have you hove out again if you were my man, or make you keep aciviller tongue in your head, " was Eben's savage retort. "Now, sir, willyou or will you not tell me how you saved the two babies, and whatbecame of the other one?"

"I will not, " answered Jack, doggedly; then seeing that Mr. George wasabout to reprove him, he added, in an altered tone: "As for the savin', that's my business; but the other poor little critter must'a been putinto the boat with its poor mother. I feel sartain it was. "

Eben leaned forward, and asked with some gentleness:

"How did you know it was the mother?"

"Because--well, by the way the poor soul screamed for it, when they wereletting her and the rest down into the boat; and the way she quietedafter, --that's how I know. But it's all unsartain. "

"And where was the other mother?"

Jack turned an imploring glance toward Mr. Reed. _Must_ he go onhumoring the fellow?--but Mr. Reed's expressive nod compelled him toreply:

"The other mother? I don't know where she was. One instant we men wasall obeyin' orders; the next, everything was wild. It was dark night, women screamin', men shoutin', the ship sinkin', some hollerin' she wasafire, and every one savin' himself an' others as best he could. Perhapsyou ain't aware that folks don't gen'rally go and get out the log atsuch times and set down their obserwations for future ref'rence. "

"Did you see Mr. Robertson?" asked Slade, loftily. "Was he with the ladyin the boat?"

"Well, if ever I met the like of land lubbers! Was he with the lady inthe boat? Did I see him? Why, man, it warn't a pleasure-party. Out ofall that shipload, barely twenty men and wimmen ever saw the sun riseagain; and Mr. Robertson, --no, nor his wife, nor the babby, nor t'otherpoor lady, --warn't amongst them, as the master here can tell you; andnone on 'em couldn't make us any the wiser about who the babbiesbelonged to. An' their mothers wasn't hardly ever on deck; 'most likethey was sick in their state-rooms, for they was born ladies, both of'em; and that's all you'll learn about it, if I stand here tilldaylight. Now, Capt'n, shall I pilot the gentl'man out?"

"Yes, you may, " cried Eben, rising so suddenly that Jack's eyes blinked, though, apart from that, not a muscle stirred. "I'll have a talk withyou outside. "

"Jest my idee!" said Jack, with alacrity, holding wide the door. "Noplace like the open sea for a collision. " Again his glance questionedMr. Reed. He was in the habit of studying that face, very much as intimes past he had studied the sky to learn the weather. But the sternanswer he found there, this time, disappointed him, and "saved EbenSlade from bein' stove in an' set beam-end in less than no time, " asJack elegantly remarked to himself, while Mr. George rose and bade hisvisitor a stiff "good-evening. "

CHAPTER XII. 

A DAY IN NEW YORK. 

ON the next morning, when Donald and Dorothy, very much to theirsurprise, were advised by their uncle not to go to the Danbys' for thepresent, Dorry exclaimed, tragically:

"Not even to the Danbys', Uncle! Why, what have _they_ done?"

His reply was far from satisfactory to the young lady. 

"Done? Nothing at all, my girl. We'll not keep you in close confinementvery long, so you must try to bear your captivity with fortitude. Thereare worse things, Dot, than being obliged to stay within one's owndomain for a few days. "

"I know it, Uncle!" said Dorry; then, resolving to be brave andcheerful, she added, with a mischievous laugh: "Wouldn't it be a goodplan to tether us in the lot, with Don's pony?"

"Excellent!" replied Uncle. "But, by the way, we need not tether youquite yet. I have business in the city to-morrow, and if you and Donaldsay yes, it shall be a party of three. "

"Oh, indeed we say yes, " cried the now happy Dorry. "Shall you be thereall day, Uncle?"

"All day, my dear. We shall have plenty of time for sight-seeing. "

"Good! good!" and off she ran to tell the glad news to Lydia. "Onlythink, Liddy! Donald and I are to be all day in New York. Oh, we'llhave such a nice time! and I'll buy you the prettiest white apron youever wore in all your life!"

 * * * * *

The new morning, skipping across the sparkling lake, climbed up toDorry's window and wakened her with its sunny touch. 

"Get up, Don, " called Dorry, at the same time tapping briskly on herwall. "It's a glorious day!"

No answer. She tapped again. 

A gruff, muffled sound was the only response. In a few moments, however, Dorry heard Don's window-blinds fly open with spirit, and she knew thather sisterly efforts to rouse him had not been in vain. 

Uncle George was fond of giving pleasant surprises; so, when later theyall three were comfortably settled in the rail-car, he remarkedcarelessly to Dorothy that he thought her idea an excellent one. 

"What idea, please, Uncle?"

"Why, don't you remember expressing a wish that you and Don could makeDr. Lane a present before his departure?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle; but I didn't know that you heard me. "

Well, the three talked the matter over quite confidentially under thefriendly racket of the train, and finally it was decided to present tothe good tutor a nice watch, with his name and "From his gratefulpupils, Donald and Dorothy, " engraved on the inside of the case. Donaldhad proposed a seal-ring, but Mr. Reed said heartily that while theywere about it they might as well make it a watch; and Dorry, in herdelight, came near jumping up and hugging her uncle before all thepassengers. It is true, she afterwards expressed a wish that they couldgive Dr. Lane the price of the watch instead; but, finally, they agreedthat a gift of money might hurt his feelings, and that after so manymonths of faithful service some sort of souvenir would be a more fittingtoken of respect and affection. Yes, all things considered, a watchwould be best. 

"He hasn't any at all, you know, " said Dorry, earnestly, looking fromone to the other, "and it must be an awful--I mean a _great_--inconvenienceto him; especially now, when he'll have to be taking medicines every twohours or so, poor man. "

Donald smiled; the remark was so like Dorry! But he looked into hergrave yet bright young face, with his heart brimful of love for her. 

 * * * * *

The day in town passed off pleasantly indeed. As Uncle George's businesstook him to a banker's in Wall Street, the D's enjoyed a walk throughthat wonderful thoroughfare, where fortunes are said to come and go inan hour, and where every one, in every crowded room of every crowdedbuilding, and on almost every foot of the crowded sidewalk, thinks, speaks, and breathes, "Money, money, money!" from morning till night. But Uncle's business was soon despatched; the anxious crowds and the"clerks in cages, " as Dorry called the busy workers in the banks, wereleft behind. Then there were fresh sights to be seen, purchases to bemade, and above all, the watch to be selected, --to say nothing of agrand luncheon at Delmonico's, where, under their busy appetites, dainties with Italian and French names became purely American in anincredibly short space of time. 

[Illustration: TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET. ]

Uncle George delighted in the pleasure of the D's. The more questionsthey asked, the better he liked it, and the more sure he became that hisDon and Dot were the brightest, most intelligent pair of young folkunder the sun. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the holiday as heartily asthey did, excepting when Dorothy, toward the latter part of theafternoon, surprised him with a blank refusal to go nearly three hundredfeet above the street. 

You shall hear all about it:

They were homeward bound, --that is to say, they were on their way to thedown-town ferry-boat that would carry them to the railroadstation, --when Donald suddenly proposed that they should stay over tilla later train. 

"And suppose we walk on down to Wall Street, Uncle, " he continued, "andgo into Trinity Church. There's a magnificent view from the spire. "

"Yes, " was his uncle's rather frightened comment. "But the spire is morethan two hundred and eighty feet high. What are you going to do aboutthat?"

"Why, climb up, sir, of course. You know there's a good stairway nearlyto the top, perhaps all the way. Anyhow, we can get up there, I know;and Ed Tyler says the view is perfectly stupendous. "

"So I've heard, " said Uncle, half ready to yield; "and the climb isstupendous too. "

"Yes, but you can look down and see the city, and the harbor, and allthe shipping, and the East River, and everything. There's an hour tospare yet. We can take it easy. What say you, Uncle?"

"Well, I say yes, " said Uncle, with forced heartiness, for he dearlyloved to oblige the twins. 

Then they turned to Dorry, though it seemed hardly necessary; she alwayswas ready for an adventure. To their surprise, she respondedemphatically:

"And _I_ say, please let me wait somewhere till Uncle and you come downagain. I don't care to go up. "

"Why, Dot, are you tired?" asked her uncle, kindly. 

"Oh, no, Uncle, not a bit. But whenever I stand on a high place I alwaysfeel just as if I _must_ jump off. Of course, I wouldn't jump, you know, but I don't wish to have the feeling. It's _so_ disagreeable. "

"I should think as much, " said Donald; but Mr. Reed walked on toward theferry, silently, with compressed lips and a flushed countenance; he didnot even mention the steeple project again. 

Meantime the noble old church on Broadway stood calmly overlooking thebustle and hurry of Wall Street, where the "money, money, money" chorusgoes on day after day, ceasing only on Sundays and holidays, and whenthe clustering stars shed their light upon the spire. 

"Uncle thinks I'm a goose to have such silly notions, " pondered Dorry, taking very long steps so as to keep up with her companions, who, by theway, were taking very short steps to keep pace with Dorry. "But I can'thelp my feelings. It really is true. I hate to stand on high places, like roofs and precipices. " Finally, she spoke:

"Uncle George, didn't you ever hear of other persons having thatfeeling?"

"What feeling, Dorothy?"

How sternly Mr. Reed said it! Surely he could not blame the poor girlfor asking so natural a question as that? No. But the incident hadsaddened him strangely, and he was unconscious of the severity of histone, until Dorothy's hesitating manner changed the current of histhoughts. 

"Why--why, the--" she began, adding: "Oh, it doesn't matter, Uncle. Isuppose I am foolish to ask such questions. But Don is ever so muchsteadier-headed than I am--aren't you, Don? I do believe he'd like tostand on the top of that telegraph-pole, if he could get there. "

"There's no 'if' about that, " said Donald, jokingly. "It's a merequestion of time. Provided a fellow can climb a pole at all, a littlemore height makes no difference. Why, if I hadn't on my crack suit, I'dask you and Uncle to wait and let me have a try at it. "

"Oho!" laughed Dorry: "'crack' suit is slang; so is 'have a try'. Fivecents apiece. That's ten cents fine for you, sir! Well, we ought to bethankful he hasn't on his old clothes, Uncle! Ahem! The 'crack' would bein the head then, instead of the suit, I'm afraid. "

"Poor joke!" retorted Don; "ten cents fine for _you_, young lady. "

Thus the party walked on, the light-hearted D's bantering each otherwith many laughing sallies, feeling confident that their uncle enjoyedit exceedingly. 

And so he did; yet all the while he was thinking:

"Strange! Every day something new--something that reminds me of poorKate. Now it's this dread of standing on high places; what will it beto-morrow? And yet, as the child herself intimates, many other personshave the same feeling. Now I think upon it, it's the commonest thing inthe world. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

DONALD AND DOROTHY ENTERTAIN FANDY. 

IN a few days after the visit to town, Mr. Reed received a letter, verydingy on the outside and very remarkable within. It was brought by oneof the little Danby boys, and it read as follows:

 "GEORGE REED ESQUIR. 

 "_Dear Sir_: I take my pen to say that the border left yesterday without notis owin us fur the hole time. He hadent a portmanter nor any luggage except paper collars, which enabeled him to go off without suspition. A tellygram which he forgot and my wife afterward pikt it up said for him to go right to Pensivania old Squir Hinson was dying. It was from a party caling himself Janson K. The border as I aught to enform you has told my children inclooding Francis Ferdinand who bares this letter a cockanbull story about bein related to your honered self by witch we know he was an imposture. I write insted of calling at the house as I am laim from cuttin my foot with an ax yesterday and it dont apear quite cuncistunt to send you a verble message. 

 "Yours respecfully, "ERASMUS DANBY. "SATURDAY. "

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, drawing a deep sigh of relief as he foldedthe missive. Then, conscience-smitten at his indifference to the Danbyinterests, and resolved that, in the end, Mr. Danby should be no loserby "the boarder, " he looked toward Master Danby. That young gentleman, dressed in a made-over Sunday suit, still stood hat in hand in thelibrary doorway. 

"Is your father badly hurt, my little man?"

"No, sir, " repeated Fandy, rapidly, and with a solemn countenance. "Histhick boot saved him. The axe fell and cut through down to his skin, andit bled a sight, and 'Mandy 'most fainted, and Ma bandaged it up sotight he hollered a bad word. "

"What?"

"Yes, sir. He said 'blazes!' And Ma said for him not to forget hisselfif he _was_ hurt, and he said he wouldn't again. And Ma devised him, asSunday was comin' so soon, to take Saturday, and so give his foot twodays to heal, and he's doin' it. "

"But 'blazes' isn't a very, very bad word, is it?"

"No, sir, not very wicketly bad. But Pa and Ben mean it instead ofswearin' words, and Ma's breaking them of it. Ma's very partic'lar. "

"That's right, " said Mr. Reed. "So, Master Francis Ferdinand, " referringto the letter, "the boarder told you that he was a relation of mine, didhe?"

"Yes, sir, but we knew better. He was a bad lot, sir. "

"A very bad lot, " returned Mr. Reed, much amused. 

"Ma said I could stay, sir, if I was asked. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Reed, smiling down upon the little midget. "Youprobably will find Donald and Dorothy in the garret. "

[Illustration: THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL. ]

"Yes, sir!" and off went Fandy with nimble dignity through the hall;then soberly, but still lightly, up the stairs to the landing at thefirst turn; then rapidly and somewhat noisily across the great squarehall on the second story, to the door of the enclosed stair-way, and, finally, with a shrill "whoop!" leaping up two steps at a time, he foundhimself in the open garret, in the presence of--the family cat!

No Donald or Dorothy was to be seen. Only the cat; and she glared athim with green eyes. Everything up there was as still as death; grimshadows lurked in the recesses and far corners; the window was shaded bysome limp garments hanging near it, and now stirring drearily Fandycould chase angry cattle and frighten dogs away from his little sisters, but lonely garrets were quite another matter. Almost any dreadful objectcould stalk out from behind things in a lonely garret! The boy lookedabout him in an awe-struck way for an instant, then tore, at break-neckspeed, down the stairs, into the broad hall, where Donald, armed like aknight, or so it seemed to the child, met him with a hearty, "Ho, isthat you, Fandy Danby? Thought I heard somebody falling. Come right intomy room. Dorry and I are practising. "

"Praxin' what?" panted the relieved Fandy, hurrying in as he spoke, andlooking about him with a delighted, "Oh my!"

Dorothy was a pretty girl at any time, but she certainly looked verypretty indeed as she turned toward the visitor--her bright hair tumbled, her face flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkling merrily. She held afencing-mask in one hand, and a foil, lightly upraised, in the other. 

"Oh, Fandy!" she said, "you are just the one we want. Don is teaching meto fence, and I can't half see how he does it, because I have to wearthe mask. Here, let me put it on you--that's a good boy, " and she suitedthe action to the word, laughing at the astonished little face whichFandy displayed through the wire network. 

"Now, take the foil!--No, no. In your right hand, so. " Then, addressingDonald, she added: "Now he's ready! Fall to, young man!"

"Yes! fall to-o!" shouted Fandy, striking an attitude and catching thespirit of the moment, like the quick little fellow he was. "Fall to-o!"

Donald laughingly parried the small child's valiant but unscientificthrusts, while Dorry looked on in great satisfaction, sure that she nowcould "catch the idea" perfectly. 

No armed chieftain at the head of his clan ever appeared moredesperately valiant than Fandy on this occasion. 

Fortunately cats can tell no tales. 

A very active youngster of eight, with a long foil in his strong littlehand, striking right and left regardless of consequences, and leapingfrom the ground when making a thrust at his opponent's heart, orsavagely attempting to rival the hero of Chevy Chase who struck off hisenemy's legs, is no mean foe. Donald was a capital fencer; and, wellskilled in the tricks of the art, he had a parry for every known thrust. But Fandy's thrusts were unknown. Nothing more original or unexpectedcould be conceived; and every time Dorry cried "foul!" he redoubled hisstrokes, taking the word as a sort of applause. For a while, Donaldlaughed so much that he scarcely could defend himself; but, whenever hefound that he was growing short of breath, he would be in earnest justlong enough to astonish his belligerent foe. At the moment when thatlively young duellist flattered himself that he was doing wonders, andpressing the enemy hard, Donald would stop laughing for a second, make asingle sudden pass toward Fandy, with a quick turn of his wrist, and, presto! the eight-year-old's foil, much to his amazement, would leavehis hand as if by magic, and go spinning across the floor. But Fandy, utterly unconscious that this unaccountable accident was a stroke of arton Donald's part, was not in the least disconcerted by it. 

[Illustration: Fandy's first fencing-match. ]

"Hello!" he would shout, nothing daunted, "_I've dropped my soword!_Wait a minute. Don't hit me yet!" And then, picking up his weapon, hewould renew the attack with all his little might. 

At last, Donald, wearying of the sport, relieved himself of his mask andconsulted his watch, a massive but trusty silver affair, which had beenworn by his father when a boy. 

Was Fandy tired? Not a bit. Practice had fired his soul. "Come on, Dorothy!" he cried. "Pull to-o! I mean, fall to-o!"

But Dorry thanked him and declined; whereat a thought struck the youngchampion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foilwith a sterner grip, he turned to Donald. 

"There's a cat up stairs. I guess it's a wild-cat. D' YOU WANT ITKILLED?"

"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushing to the door and standingwith her back against it. "Would you do such a thing as that?"

"I would to d'fend myself, " said Fandy, stoutly. "Don't hunters killtigers?"

"But this isn't a tiger, nor even a wild-cat. It's tame. It's our Nan!"

"Let him go try, " spoke up Donald. "He'll get the worst of it. "

"Indeed I'll not let him try, either, " cried Dorry, still holding herposition. 

But Fandy already was beginning to cool down. Second thoughts came tohis rescue. 

"I don't believe in hurtin' tame animals, " said he. "It's naughty, " andthe foil and mask were laid carefully upon the table. 

"Who taught you to fight with these things?" he asked Donald in anoff-hand way, as though he and Don were about equal in skill, with thegreat difference that his own power came to him by nature, whileDonald's undoubtedly was the result of severe teaching. 

"Professor Valerio. "

"Oh, did he? I've heard 'Manda talk about _him_. She says he'sthe--the--somethingest man in the village. I forget now what she calledhim. What's those things?" Here the visitor pointed to Don'sboxing-gloves. 

At any other time Don would have taken them from the wall and explainedtheir use, but it was nearly three o'clock, and this was hisfencing-lesson day. So he merely said, "They're boxing-gloves. "

"Do you _wear_ 'em?" asked Fandy, looking in a puzzled way, first at thehuge things, then at Donald's hands, as if comparing the sizes. 

"Yes, when I'm boxing, " returned Donald. 

"What will you do about your fencing-lesson, Don?" said Dorry. "Do youthink Uncle will let you go? We're prisoners, you know. "

"Of course he will, " replied Donald, taking his hat (he had a mask andfoil at the professor's) and preparing to start. "I'm to call for EdTyler at three. We'll have rare times to-day; two fellows from town areto be there, --prime fencers, both of them, --and we are to have a fencingmatch. "

[Illustration: THE FENCING-MASTER. ]

"You'll win, " said Dorry. "You always do. Ed Tyler says you are thefinest fencer he ever saw, excepting Professor Valerio, and he says youbeat even the professor sometimes. "

"Nonsense!" said Donald, severely, though his face betrayed hispleasure. "Ed Tyler himself's a match for any one. "

"What a mutual-admiration society you two are!"

Dorry said this so good-naturedly that Donald could not resent it, and_his_ good-nature made her add:

"Well, I don't care. You're _both_ splendid, if I do say it; and, oh, isn't the professor handsome! He's so straight and tall. Uncle says he'sa standing argument against round shoulders. "

Dorry had taken a photograph from the table, and had been talking partlyto it and partly to Donald. As she laid the picture down again, Fandystepped up to take a look. 

"Who is it?" he asked. 

"It's Professor Valerio, Don's fencing-master. "

"Whew! See his soword!" exclaimed the small boy, looking at the picturein great admiration. "My, wouldn't I like to fight _him_!"

"There goes Don, " said Dorothy, who by this time was looking out of thewindow; "Uncle must have consented. "

"Consented!" echoed Fandy. "Why, can't Donald go out 'thout askin'? Bencan, and Dan David, too; so can 'Mandy and----Hello, Charity, I'ma-comin'. "

This last remark was shouted through the open window, where Dorothystood waving her hand at the baby. 

"Can you come up, Charity?" she cried out. 

"No, thank you. Mother said I must hurry back. She wants Fandy. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

UNCLE GEORGE'S HAPPY THOUGHT. 

DR. LANE, made proud and happy by the affection of his bright youngpupils, as well as by their beautiful gift, bade farewell to Mr. Reedand the D's, with repeated promises to write in due time and tell themhow he liked the sunny South, and how it fared with him. 

"I shall like it, I know, " he assured them, "and the climate will makeme strong and well. Good-by once more, for you see" (here he made aplayful show of consulting his watch as he took it proudly from hisvest-pocket) "it is precisely six and three-quarter minutes after three, and I must catch the 4. 20 train to town. Good-by. " But there were moregood-byes to come; for Jack had brought the light top-wagon to the door, and Donald and Dorothy insisted upon driving with him and Dr. Lane tothe station. 

Upon their return, they found their uncle and Liddy engaged inconsultation. 

The evening came on with change of wind, a dull gray sky and all theunwelcome signs of a long storm. 

"I have been thinking, " remarked Mr. Reed, while he and the D's werewaiting for supper, "that it would be a good idea to have a little funbetween times. What say you, my dears?"

The dears looked at each other, and Don asked, "Between what times, Uncle?"

"Why, between the going of our good friend Dr. Lane and the coming ofthat awful, but as yet unknown personage, the new tutor. "

"Oh, yes, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands, "I'm ready foranything. But then, " she added, half-playfully, "you forget we'reprisoners, like the princes in the Tower!"

"Not prisoners at all now, " he exclaimed, "unless the storm should proveyour jailer. Circumstances have changed; and you are free as air. "

"Let me see, what shall we have, " he went on, taking no notice of theD's' surprise at this happy turn of affairs, and speaking slowly anddeliberately--just as if he had not settled that matter with Liddy somedays ago!--"Let me see. What _shall_ it be? Ah, I have a happy thought!We'll try a house-picnic!"

"What's that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, half-suspiciously. 

"You don't know what a house-picnic is!" exclaimed Uncle George withpretended astonishment. "Well, upon my word!"

It did not occur to him to mention that the idea of a house-picnic waspurely an invention of his own; nor did he suspect that it was one whichcould have found favor only in the brain of a doting and rich bacheloruncle. 

"Now, Uncle, do--don't!" coaxed Dorry; and Don echoed, laughingly: "Yes, Uncle, do--don't!" But he was as eager as she to hear more. 

"Why, my dears, a house-picnic means this: It means the whole housethrown open from ten in the morning till ten at night. It means fun inthe garret, music and games in the parlor, story-telling in odd corners, candy-pulling in the kitchen, sliding-curtains, tinkling bells, andfunny performances in the library; it means almost any right thingwithin bounds that you and about thirty other youngsters choose to makeit, with the house thrown open to you for the day. "

"No out-of-doors at all?" asked Donald, doubtfully, but with sparklingeyes. 

"Oh, yes, a run or two when you wish, for fresh air's sake; but frompresent appearances, there'll be drizzling days all the week, I suspect, and that will make your house-picnic only the pleasanter. "

"So it will! How splendid!" cried Dorry. "Jack can take the big coveredwagon and go for the company, rain or not, while Don and you and I planthe fun. We'll try all sorts of queer out-of-the-way things. Good forthe house-picnic!"

"Good for the house-picnic!" shouted Donald, becoming almost asenthusiastic as Dorry. 

"Oh, Uncle, " she went on, "you are too lovely! How _did_ you happen tothink of it?"

"Well, you see, " said Uncle, with the glow-look, as Liddy called it, coming to his face, "I thought my poor princes in the Tower had beenrather good and patient under the persecutions of their cruel UncleGloucester, and so Liddy and I decided they should have a little frolicby way of a change. "

"Has _he_ gone from the neighborhood, I wonder?" thought Donald (strangeto say, neither he nor Dorry had known that the Danbys' boarder and the"long, lank man" were the same), but he said aloud: "We're ever so gladto hear it, Uncle. Now, whom shall we invite?"

"Oh, _do_ hear that 'whom'!" exclaimed Dorry, in well-feigned disgust, while Don went on gayly:

"Let's have plenty of girls this time. Don't you say so, Dorry?"

"Oh, yes, let's have fifteen girls and fifteen boys. Let's invite allthe Danbys; may we, Uncle? It would be such a treat to them; you knowthey never have an opportunity to go to a party. "

"Just as you please, my girl; but will not ten of them be rather a largeproportion out of thirty?"

"Oh, no, Uncle dear. They can't _all_ come--not the very littlest ones, any way. At any rate, if Don's willing, I'd like to ask them. "

"Agreed!" assented Don. 

"The ayes have it!" said Uncle George. "Now let us go to supper. "

Dorry ran on ahead, so as to have a word with Liddy on the delightfulsubject of house-picnics; but Don, lingering, startled his uncle with awhispered:

"I say, Uncle, has Jack thrashed that fellow?"

"I have heard nothing to that effect, " was the reply. "The man wascalled away suddenly. "

"Oh, " said Donald, in a disappointed tone, "I hoped you had given himhis walking papers. "

"I have, perhaps, " returned Mr. Reed, smiling gravely, "but not in theway you supposed. "

Don looked up, eagerly, hoping to hear more, but his uncle, withoutanother word, led the way into the supper-room. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE HOUSE-PICNIC. 

THE house-picnic proved a complete success. In the first place, not onlythe original thirty came, but other boys and girls whose names had beenadded to the list; secondly, a lovely snow-storm, one of the bright, drykind, had come during the night, and evidently had come to stay;thirdly, the guests made it a frolic from the start, and everysleigh-load driven to the door by Jack came in singing and cheering;fourthly, Uncle George, as Dorry said, was "splendid, " Jack was "good asgold, " and Liddy was "too lovely for anything;" fifthly, the house fromtop to bottom was bright, home-like, and beautiful; and lastly, hardlyanything was broken, not a single child was killed, and the house wasn'tburned to the ground, --all of which Liddy and Jack agreed was "simplymirac'l'us!"

Such a wonderful day as that is hard to describe. Imagine the scene. Great square halls on the first and second floors; broad stair-ways;fine open rooms; pleasant fires; beautiful flowers; boys and girlsflitting, gathering everywhere, from garret to kitchen, --now scattered, now crowded, now listening to stories, now running, now hiding, nowgazing at an impromptu "performance, " now sitting in a demure circle, with a napkin on every lap, --you know why, --now playing games, nowhaving a race on the broad freshly-swept piazza, that extended alongevery side of the mansion, now giving three cheers for Uncle George, andthen beginning all over again. It lasted more than ten hours, yet nobodywas tired, (until the next day!) and all the guests declared, in one wayor another, that it was the very nicest time they ever had known intheir lives. Donald and Dorothy were delightful as host and hostess. They enjoyed everything, were on the alert for every one's pleasure, and by their good-humor, courtesy, and graceful manners, unconsciouslyset an example to all the picnickers. Uncle George, --ah, now I knowwhat to say! You have known him heretofore as a man of graveresponsibility, --troubled with an anxiety which to you, perhaps, hasbeen uncomfortably mysterious. But Uncle George, at the house-picnic, was quite a different man. He threw care to the winds, proposed games, invented capital "forfeits, " sprang surprises upon the guests, laughedand played like a splendid boy, and, better yet, wore his "glow-look"nearly all the time. 

"How handsome Mr. Reed is!" thought more than one young guest. "They sayhis brother Wolcott was handsomer still. No wonder Don and Dorry are sogood-looking. Ho! what are we going to do now?"

Then would follow a merry, well-ordered rush to this or that part ofthe house, according to the special attraction of the moment. But, really, it is quite impossible for any one to describe the day properly. The only way is to give you a few notes from observations taken on thespot. 

We'll begin with the kitchen--Norah's kingdom. There she stands, a queenin a calico gown. But Dorothy has the sceptre. It is a big wooden spoon. She and a dozen other girls are crowding about the big cooking-stove. All have large towels pinned over their dresses, after the fashion ofTopsy's apron--close to the throat, tight around the skirt, and the armsleft free. What in the world are they making? What but molasses candy!It is nearly done. It ought to be, after the boiling and the stirringthat the girls in turn have given it. Finally, some one holds forward apan of cold water. Dorothy, carefully dipping out a spoonful of thefragrant syrup, drops it into the water. It sizzes; it stiffens--hurrah!the candy is ready to be taken from the fire. 

Cool enough now. "Come, boys! Come, girls!" cries Uncle. 

"Here, put these on, --every one of you!" cries Liddy, her arms loadedwith the coarse towel-aprons which she--knowing soul!--had speciallyprepared for the occasion. "Sakes! be careful! Don't burn yourselves!"

But who hears? They are pulling the candy already. Boys and girls inpairs, with hands daintily washed and greased, are taking soft lumps ofthe cooling confection, drawing them out into long, shining ribbons, doubling and drawing them out again until they get lighter and lighterin color, and finally, the beautiful golden strands are declared readyfor more artistic handling. Then follow royal fun and rivalry, eachyoung confectioner trying to outdo the other. Some twist the soft candyinto sticks and lay them aside to cool; some braid it charmingly; othersmake little walking-canes; others cut it into caramels, --one and allindulging meantime in flavorsome morsels, and finally shouting withdelight over Donald's masterpiece, which he has placed upon the tablefor inspection, and which he calls

[Illustration: THE MAID OF ORLEANS!]

"Ha! ha!" shouts Daniel Danby. "Pretty good! But supposing it hadn'tbeen made of Orleans! Guess there are other kinds of molasses. " But thatsarcastic and well-informed young gentleman is hardly heard in thelaughing commotion. 

Ah, what a washing of hands! For the fun of the thing, Uncle George hascaused warm water to be put into a great tub, which stands upon thewash-bench, and now the candy-pullers take their turn in a close ringabout it, all frantically feeling and struggling for the soap whichrepeatedly bobs to the surface, only to be dashed out of sight again bysome desperate little hand. 

While this merry crowd of cooks and pullers is working and frolicking inthe kitchen, under Norah's watchful eye, a few of the company may befound in other parts of the old mansion, amusing themselves in their ownfashion. Some of the very young guests are in the upper rooms playingchildish games; and one or two older ones, who, as it happens, see quiteenough of the kitchen in their own homes, prefer to enjoy themselves nowin the finer apartments. 

[Illustration: THE CANDY-PULLING. ]

We'll look into Mr. Reed's study, the door of which stands slightlyajar. Amanda Danby is there alone. She is sitting in the master's bigchair with a volume of poems in her hand--forgetting the party, forgetting that she has laboriously smoothed her curly hair for theoccasion, forgetting that she is wearing her precious drab merino--hermother's wedding gown--now made over for the fourth time, forgetting thenew collar and pretty blue bow at her throat (Dorry's gifts), consciousonly that

 "The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, -- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar. "

Amanda smiles to herself as she turns the leaf, feeling that, after all, there is a great deal of life and spirit in the world, and thatdish-pans, pots, and kettles are mere phantoms of the imagination. Theverse runs on so smoothly too. She could write whole books of poetryherself if she only had gone somewhere and improved herself. Then, asshe reads on, the great, comfortable arm-chair, the soft carpet, thewell-filled book-shelves and the subdued light, give her a vague, delightful sense of having improved herself already. 

Let us look into the other rooms. No one in the parlor; the backsitting-room, too, is deserted; the dining-room is locked for awhile;but high up on the garret-stairs sit three wide-eyed, open-mouthedyoungsters listening to Ben Buster. 

"True?" he is saying, "of course it's true; I knew the boy myself--JoeGunther, smart fellow. He's on a ranch, now, out in Californy. I'll tellyou how it was; he was living with a settler named Brown, 'way off inUtah. Brown had three men besides Joe to help him, --sort of partnership, I b'lieve, raising cattle. It was a desolate place, and the Indians weretroublesome. Brown nor his men never went outside the door without aloaded gun, and they kept several more in the hut, always loaded, readyfor an attack. One morning, long before daylight, Joe heard a rumpus. Hewas in bed, --none of your cots, but a bunk, like a shelf, fastened tothe inside of the stockade walls. "

"What do you mean by stockade walls?" asks one of the listeners. 

"Why, walls made out of logs standing upright. It was only a hut, yousee; no laths, nor plaster, nor any such nonsense. Well, Joe knew bywhat he heard that old man Brown was inside, firing from the door at theIndians; didn't know where the other two were, --killed, may be, --and soJoe gets up on his knees and looks through a crevice of the stockadewall, and sees the chief crawling stealthily around the hut to get in atthe only window and attack the old man! A loaded gun--double barrel--washanging on the wall right near Joe. What did he do but take it, put themuzzle through the chink, and let go at the fellow; discharged bothbarrels clean at him. 'You will, will you?' he yelled out, as the Indianfell; and I declare, if the other Indians weren't so scared andmystified by the sudden voice, and the chief killed, out of the verywalls, as it seemed to them, that they turned and scampered. Joe rushedout to old man Brown, and there he was, with his two partners, at thedoor, not one of the three scratched, and the chief was lying there bythe stockade wall, just as he fell. 

"Joe didn't care to go near him, for by this time he began to feelrather weak in the joints. But the most wonderful part of all is to comeyet. That Indian chief was only wounded, after all. They thought he waskilled; and while the three men and Joe were in the hut, planning whatthey should do next, --for they were sure the redskins would come back ingreater force to get the body of their chief, --I declare if that oldIndian didn't up and go about his business. Brown and Joe and all ofthem searched the forest well, that day and the next, but they neverfound him. Joe had made his mark though, and he was in more than onescrimmage with the Indians after that. "

"It's a shame to kill Indians!" at last exclaims one of Ben'sawe-stricken listeners. "My father says they've been imposed upon andabused by the white folks. He says we ought to teach them instead ofkilling them. "

"That's so, " says another of the trio, nodding emphatically. "My fathersays so too. "

"Oh, does he?" returns Ben Buster, in mild wrath, "who doesn't? But thiswas a fair fight. What are you going to do when they're doin' thekilling, eh? Open your book and hear them a spelling lesson? Guess not. Ask 'em questions in 'rithmetic when they're helping themselves to yourscalp? Oh, of course. "

All of which would be very impressive and very convincing to the younghearers, did not a small boy, named Jedediah Treadwell, at this momentcome suddenly rushing across the hall, shouting--

"Ho! Candy! I smell merlasses candy. They're making it. Come on. "

And down they run--all but Ben, who prefers to go through the house insearch of adventures. He opens a door, sees a small ring of prettilydressed little girls and boys, hand in hand, singing:

 "Oats, pease, beans, and barley grows! You nor I nor nobody knows Where, oats, pease, beans, and barley grows. "

He beats a hasty retreat. Signs of commotion come from Mr. Reed's roomon the other side of the hall; but Ben, hearing Fandy's familiar voicethere, turns aside and goes slowly down stairs, feeling rather boredsince there is no one to listen to his stories. 

Soon he is in the kitchen, laughing with the rest at Donald's expressivemasterpiece, but secretly resolving never to go into company again untilhe can have a frock-coat. The blue cloth jacket and trousers, boughtwith his last year's savings, somehow do not seem to him as fine as theydid when he put them on earlier in the day; though he is an independentyouth, not easily made dissatisfied with his appearance. For the firsttime in his life he rather envies Daniel David and Ellen Elizabeth, wholook remarkably well on this occasion, being dressed in clothes thatonce were Donald's and Dorothy's. This is no unusual effect. For Lydia, with Mr. Reed's hearty sanction, has long been in the habit of slylyhanding garments to Mrs. Danby, with the flattering assurance that asthe dear D's grow like weeds, it will be an act of real kindness if Mrs. Danby will turn the clothes to good account; and Mrs. Danby always hascomplied. 

Talking of the Danbys, perhaps this is a fitting time to explain thecommotion that Ben heard in Mr. Reed's sleeping-room. 

A moment before, and in the midst of certain lively planning, amiddle-sized boy, named Thomas Budd, had strayed from the candy-pullingscene and appeared at the threshold of this apartment, where CharityDanby, little Isabella Danby, Fandy, and three or four others wereassembled. 

"All right!" shouted Fandy, excitedly, as Master Budd entered; "comealong, Tommy Budd, you can play too. Now Charity Cora, look out forIs'bella! We're going to have my new game. "

"Oh, please do, Cora! quick!" cried little Helen Danby. "Fandy's made itup all hisself, and he's goin' to teach it to us. "

"That's right, " said Fandy, approvingly, as Charity Cora hastily liftedher three-year-old sister from the floor; "take her 'way off. It's aawful dang'rous game. She might get killed!"

Very naturally, Cora, with little Isabel in her arms, stood near thedoor to see what was going to happen. 

"Now, chil'ren, " cried Fandy, "take your places all over. Pete, you're alion; Sammy, you're a big wolf; Helen, you're a wild cat; Gory, you're aelephant; and Tommy, you'll have to be, --let's see, what other animal isthere? Oh! yes; you must be a kangaroo! and I'm a great big hunter-man, with a gun an' a soword!"

So saying, the great big hunter-man took a small brass-handled shoveland poker from the brass stand by the open fireplace, and struck anattitude. 

"Now, chil'ren, you must all go 'round, a-howling and going on likewhat you all are, and I'll pounce on you fass as I can, an' kill you. When I shoot, you must fall right down; and when I chop off your headswith my big soword, you must roar awful. "

"Hah! Where's the game in that?" cried Gory, scornfully. 

"Why--let's see, " said Fandy, rather puzzled. "Oh! yes; the one I killfirst is _it_--that's the game. "

"All right, " exclaimed Tommy Budd, "and then that one takes the gun andsword and hunts. That's first-rate. Let's begin. "

But Fandy objected to this. 

"No, no, " he said, "I've got to do all the killin', 'coz it's my game. I'll tell you what! The ones that gets killed are dead animals; and allthe dead animals can go under the bed!"

"That'll do, " they shouted; and the game began. Such roaring and baying, growling and shouting, were never heard in human habitation before. 

Baby Isabel, who must have been born to be a lion-tamer, looked on ingreat glee; and Cora tried not to feel frightened. 

Fandy made a capital hunter; he shot right and left, and sawed off theheads of the slain like a good fellow, until at last there were fourdead animals under the bed, all lying curled up just as still as mice. 

There was only one more animal to kill, and that was Tom, the kangaroo. 

Bang! went Fandy's gun--the shovel end pressed in style against hisshoulder. Bang!

But the kangaroo didn't fall. 

Fandy took more careful aim, and fired again. 

Bang!

Still the kangaroo hopped about, as frisky as ever. 

"Bang! I tell you! Don't you hear me say 'bang'? Why don't you go dead?"

"You haven't hit me yet, " retorted the kangaroo, taking wonderful leaps. "Look out! Pretty soon I'll jump on you and smash you!"

"No, you won't, neither!" cries the hunter, growing very red and takingfresh aim. 

Bang!

Unlucky shot! The kangaroo was on him in an instant. 

"Now, sir, " growls the kangaroo, butting the overthrown hunter with hishead, "what's the next part of this game? Who beats?"

"I do!" gasped Fandy. "Get off me. "

This was too much for the dead animals under the bed. They began tolaugh. 

Cora laughed as heartily as any, and so did half a dozen big boys andgirls who by this time had assembled in the open doorway. 

"Stop laughin', " shouted Fandy, still struggling under the kangaroo, "an' all you under the bed come out. Don't you know when all the animals'cept one is killed, that's the end of the game? Let's play somethin'else. "

"Where'd you get that?" he added, as soon as he was a free man, --partlyto change the subject, and partly because a boy whom he knew suddenlyappeared eating a piece of molasses candy. 

"Down stairs. We've been making loads of it, " was the muffled reply. 

A hint was enough. It is hardly necessary to say that in a twinkling, lion, tiger, wild cat, wolf, elephant, and hunter and kangaroo hadjoined the crowd in the kitchen, and were feasting ecstatically uponcaramels and molasses sticks. 

"Whatever shall I do, Mr. George, sir, " said the distressed Lydia, "tostop the eating? They'll be sick, sir, every mother's child of them, ifthey keep on. "

"Tell them to wash their hands and faces and come to the parlor. We'llhave the picture-gallery game now, " said Mr. Reed. 

Accordingly, scouts were sent through the house to bring the companytogether. Meantime, Sailor Jack, in his best clothes, was hard at workclearing the decks for action, as he said. 

All were in the parlor and seated, at last. That is, all excepting UncleGeorge and eight or ten, who hardly could be missed from such a roomful. Jack had arranged the chairs in several long rows, facing the greatsliding-doors that separated the parlor from the back sitting-room; andon these were seated subdued and expectant boys and girls, all gazing atthe closed doors, while the youngest of the guests sat on the floor infront of the chairs, half-frightened, half-delighted at the prospect of"seeing something. "

By this time the feathery snow-storm had ceased, and a flood ofafternoon sunlight was pouring into the large room. Whispered commentsupon the change of weather arose, coupled with remarks that there wouldbe coasting next day, anyhow; then came other remarks, and lightlaughter, with occasional clapping of hands, when suddenly Mr. Reedappeared at the side entrance which led into the hall:

"YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! You are now to see a live picture-gallery, and we ask for your criticism upon the paintings, begging you to bemerciful in your remarks, and not to be too funny while you try to makethe pictures laugh. For, you must know, if any picture in our gallery isguilty of even a smile, it must instantly pop out of sight, leaving itsframe empty. When all the frames are thus deserted, we shall expect someof you to fill them again. In fact, each picture in the presentexhibition is to select his or her substitute for the next time. "

At this, some of the boys looked troubled, and some of the girlstittered; but one and all clapped, in hearty applause of Mr. Reed'slittle speech. 

Then came the tinkle of a bell to announce that all was ready; Ed Tylerand Donald pushed back the sliding doors, and there, in the great squaredoorway, was the picture-gallery. To be strictly correct, we should callthis gallery a gray wall, apparently hung from top to bottom with fineportraits in broad gilt frames, and all looking wonderfully life-likeand _un_natural; for when a live portrait must not laugh, how can itfeel at ease?

At first the spectators were too surprised to speak. Then came a murmurof admiration, with cries of "Good, good!" from the boys and "Howlovely!" from the girls; while Liddy, by the parlor door, clasped herhands in silent rapture at the beautiful show. 

Beautiful, indeed, it was. All the portraits were as fresh and glowingas though they had been "painted yesterday. " The drawing was perfect, the coloring exquisite, and so well were the pictures lighted, socunningly provided with dark backgrounds, that they seemed really to bepaintings. Dorry, in a prim Quaker cap and muslin neckerchief, wasprettier than ever. Josie Manning, in red cloak and hood, made acharming gypsy; little Fandy, with his brown eyes and rosy cheeks, was aremarkably handsome portrait of himself; and a sallow, black-hairedyouth in a cloak and slouched hat, with a paper-cutter in his clenchedfist, scowled admirably as a brigand. The other pictures, though contentto be simply faces trying not to smile, were really very bright andeffective, and a credit to any artist. 

"Well!" exclaimed Uncle, after a moment, "what have the critics to say?What do you think of--of the gypsy, for instance? Who will buy it?"

"I won't!" shouted a funny little fellow in knickerbockers. "It's achromo. "

The gypsy twitched very slightly, and all the other pictures put onincreased solemnity of expression, for they felt that their time, too, was coming. 

"Do you throw in the frame?" asked some one else. 

"Isn't that right eye a little out?" said a girl who was takingdrawing-lessons. 

This made the picture laugh, and presto! the frame was empty. 

After this, though the remarks made were not brilliant nor irresistiblyfunny, the picture-gallery soon suffered severe losses. So small a thingwill make us laugh when we try to look grave. The brigand exploded at acutting allusion to his dagger; the Quakeress yielded to a profoundremark concerning her _chiaro-scuro_; other faces grinned the instantthey were specially alluded to, and finally, Fandy's portrait was theonly one left in its frame. That bright little countenance stared intothe room so defiantly that even Uncle George tried, with the rest, toconquer it. 

In vain critics criticised--the portrait was deaf. In vain they tried tobe as funny as they could; it was obdurate. In vain they shouted at it, laughed at it. Not a smile. Fandy was a youth of principle, and he feltbound in honor to do his duty. Then the boys called the picture names. It was a monkey, a tramp, a kitten, an eel, a hop-toad. Everybody triedto think of something too funny for him to resist. Then Donald said:

"No, it's not an animal at all. Let's see--what _does_ it look like, anyway? Ah, it's a target; don't you see the bull's-eye?"

Not a smile. 

"Bring a pot of varnish, " cried Ed Tyler, "the picture is so dull we'llshine it up a little and see what that will do. " Suddenly a childishhowl was heard, to everybody's surprise; for little three-year-oldIsabel had been quite forgotten. 

"A-ow, a-ow! Tate Fan'-y down. What's 'e masser wis Fan'-y? Me wantFan'-y. "

The little sister unconsciously triumphed where every one else hadtried and failed. Fandy laughed with the rest, and instantlydisappeared, as though he had been blown out like a candle. He was soonin the parlor, comforting Isabel to the best of his ability, castingsaucy glances at the rest of the company meanwhile, with a merry shakeof the head, as if to say, "You thought you could make me laugh, didyou? No, sir, you couldn't. "

Now while the folding doors were closed, a new set of pictures was made;the bell tinkled again, and the game went on as before. 

There hung the same six frames in the same places upon the gray wall;but the portraits were new, and very effective, though some of themlaughed as soon as the opened doors revealed them to the spectators. This time, by way of variety, each frame as soon as vacated was filledwith another portrait in full view of the company. When the emptiedframe happened to be on the lower part of the gray wall, the new"picture" had only to stand or kneel upon the carpet behind the frame, but if it happened to be higher up, he or she was obliged to climb upona chair or table behind it, or even a ladder, whichever might benecessary to enable the picture to appear at the proper place. 

For this gray wall, you must know, was but a large straight curtain ofdark cotton stuff, without any fulness, stretched tightly across thedoorway behind the sliding doors, and with large square or oblong piecescut out of it here and there. Each open space thus left was borderedwith a strip of gilt paper, thus forming an empty picture-frame. Don andDorry had made the whole thing themselves the day before, and they weretherefore very happy at the success of the picture-gallery, and the funit created. They had ingeniously provided the highest pictures withsmall, dark curtains, fastened above the back of the frames, and hangingloosely enough to be drawn behind the living pictures, so as to formbackgrounds. A draped clothes-horse answered the same purpose for thelower pictures. All of this explanation and more was given by Don andDorry at the house-picnic to eager listeners who wished to get upexactly such a picture-gallery at their own homes some evening. Butwhile they were talking about it somebody at the piano struck up amarch--"Mendelssohn's Wedding March"--and almost before they knew it theguests found themselves marching to the music two by two in a processionacross the great square hall, now lighted by a bright blaze in its openfireplace. 

[Illustration: THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE-GALLERY. ]

Donald and Dorry joined the merry line, wondering what was about tohappen--when to their great surprise (ah, that sly Uncle George! andthat innocent Liddy!) the double doors leading into the dining-room wereflung open, and there, sparkling in the light of a hundred wax-candles, was a collation fit for Cinderella and all her royal court. I shall notattempt to describe it, for fear of forgetting to name some of the goodthings. Imagine what you will, and I do believe there was something justlike it, or quite as good, upon that delightful table, so beautiful withits airy, fairy-like structures of candied fruits, frostings, andflowers; its jagged rock of ice where chickens and turtles, made ofice-cream, were resting on every peak and cranny; its gold-tintedjellies, and its snowy temples. Soon, fairy-work and temple yielded toruthless boys, who crowded around with genteel eagerness to serve thegirls with platefuls of delicacies, quite ignoring the rolling eye-ballsof two little colored gentlemen who had been sent up from town with thefeast, and who had fully expected to do the honors. Meanwhile Liddy, inblack silk gown and the Swiss muslin apron which Dorry had bought forher in the city, was looking after the youngest guests, resolved thatthe little dears should not disgrace her motherly care by eating toomuch, or by taking the wrong things. 

"Not that anything on that table could hurt a chicken, " she said softlyto Charity Cora, as she gave a bit of sponge-cake and a saucer of_blanc-mange_ to little Isabel, "Mr. George and I looked out for that;but their dear little stomachs are so risky, you know, one can't be toocareful. That's the reason we were so particular to serve out sandwichesand substantials early in the day, you know. But sakes! there's thatmolasses candy! I can't help worrying about it. "

Charity Cora made no reply beyond a pleasant nod, for, in truth, conversation had no charms for her just then. If Donald had found you, hungry reader, modestly hidden in a corner, and with a masterly bow hadhanded you that well-laden plate, would you have felt like talking toLiddy?

But Liddy didn't mind. She was too happy with her own thoughts to noticetrifles. Besides, Sailor Jack just at that moment came to lay a freshlog on the hall fire, and that gave her an opportunity to ask him if heever had seen young folks "having a delighteder time. "

"_Never_, Mistress Blum! Never!" was his emphatic, all-sufficientresponse. 

At this very moment, Gory Danby, quite unconscious of the feast upstairs, was having his own private table in the kitchen. Having grownhungry for his usual supper of bread and milk, he had stolen in uponNorah and begged for it so charmingly, that she was unable to resisthim. Imagine his surprise when, drowsily taking his last mouthful, hesaw Fandy rush into the room with a plate of white grapes. 

"Gory Danby!" exclaimed that disgusted brother, "I'm 'shamed of you!What you stuffin' yourse'f with common supper for when there's _a party_up stairs? Splendid things, all made of sugar! Pull off that bib, now, an' come along!"

 * * * * *

Again the march struck up. Feasting was over. The boys and girls, led byUncle George, who seemed the happiest boy of all, went back to theparlor, which, meanwhile, had been rearranged, and there, producing agreat plump tissue-paper bag, he hung it to the chandelier that wassuspended from the middle of the parlor ceiling. I should like to tellyou about this chandelier, how it was covered with hundreds of long, three-sided glass danglers that swung, glittered, and flashed in asplendid way, now that all its wax candles were lighted: but that wouldinterrupt the account of the paper bag. This bag was full of something, they were sure. Uncle George blindfolded Josie Manning with ahandkerchief, and putting a stick in her hand, told her to turn aroundthree times and then try to strike the bag with the stick. 

[Illustration: GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE. ]

"Stand back, everybody, " cried Donald, as she made the last turn. "Now, hit hard, Josie! Hard enough to break it!"

Josie did hit hard. But she hit the air just where the bag didn't hang;and then the rest laughed and shouted, and begged to be blindfolded, sure that they could do it. Mr. Reed gave each a chance in turn, buteach failed as absurdly as Josie. Finally, by acclamation, the bandagewas put over Dorothy's dancing eyes, though she was sure she never, never could--and lo! after revolving like a lovely Chinese top, theblindfolded damsel, with a spring, and one long, vigorous stroke, torethe bag open from one side to the other. Down fell the contents upon thefloor--pink mottoes, white mottoes, blue mottoes, and mottoes of goldand silver paper, all fringed and scalloped and tied with ribbons, andevery one of them plump with sugar-almonds or some good kind of candy. How the guests rushed and scrambled for them!--how Fandy Danby fairlyrolled over the other boys in his delight!--and how the young folks toreopen the pretty papers, put the candy into their pockets, and shylyhanded or sent the printed mottoes to each other! Fandy, in hisexcitement, handed a couplet to a pretty little girl with yellow hair, and then seeing her pout as she looked at it, ran over to her again witha quick "Let me see't. What does it say?" She held out the little bit ofpaper without letting it go, and Fandy seizing it at the other end, readlaboriously and in laughing dismay:

 "You-are-the-nicest-boy-I-know, And-this-is-just-to-tell-you-so. "

He recovered himself instantly, however, and wagging his handsome littlehead at her, exclaimed emphatically:

"Girl, _girl_, don't you see, I meant girl! It's pleposterous to thinkI meant boy, cause you ain't one, don't you see. Mottoes is awfulfoolish, anyway. Come over in the hall and see the gol'-fishes swimmin'in the 'quarium, "--and off they ran together, as happy as birds. 

Then came a dance--the Lancers. Two thirds of the young company, including Don and Dorry, attended the village dancing-school; and oneand all "just doted on the Lancers, " as Josie Manning said. UncleGeorge, knowing this, had surprised the D's by secretly engaging twoplayers, --for piano-forte and violin, --and their well-marked time andspirited playing put added life into even the lithe young forms thatflitted through the rooms. Charity looked on in rapt delight, the moreso as kind Sailor Jack already had carried the sleepy and warmly bundledIsabel home to her mother. 

One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, aftera few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to preparefor the

 "THANK-YOU" GAME!

"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; andtheir host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightestidea what it was; they never had heard of it before. 

"Well, then, how can we play it?" insisted the little spokes-people. 

"I don't know, " answered Dorry, looking in a puzzled way at the door. 

"All join hands and form a circle!" cried a voice. 

Every one arose, and soon the circle stood expectant. 

"Your dear great-great fairy godmother is coming to see you, " continuedthe voice. "She is slightly deaf, but you must not mind that. "

"Oh, no, no!" cried the laughing circle, "not in the least. "

"She brings her white gnome with her, " said the invisible speaker; "anddon't let him know your names, or he will get you into trouble. "

"No, no, no!" cried the circle, wildly. 

A slight stirring was heard in the hall, the doors opened, and in walkedthe big fairy godmother and her white gnome. 

She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, anda long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. Therest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cutin it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tiedaround the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrowribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, anda round opening for his mouth. The godmother dragged in a large sack, and the gnome bore a stick with bells at the end. 

"Let me into the ring, dears, " squeaked the fairy godmother. 

"Let me into the ring, dears, " growled the white gnome. 

The circle obeyed. 

"Now, my dears, " squeaked the fairy godmother, "I've brought you abagful of lovely things, but, you must know, I am under an enchantment. All I can do is to let you each take out a gift when your turn comes, but when you send me a 'Thank-you, ' don't let my white gnome know who itis, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back withoutopening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keepthe gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle movinguntil my gnome knocks three times. "

Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly theblindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointedit straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd wasthe happy youth pointed at. 

"Help yourself, my dear, " squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held thesack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out aneat paper parcel. 

"Hey! What did you say, dear?" she squeaked. "Take hold of the stick. "

Tommy seized the end of the stick, and said, in a hoarse tone, "Thankyou, ma'am. "

"That's John Stevens, " growled the gnome. "Put it back! put it back!"

But it wasn't John Stevens, and so Tommy kept the parcel. 

The circle moved again. The gnome knocked three times, and this time thestick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct herneighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that. 

"Help yourself, child, " she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcelwhich she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied withribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you, " butthe blindfolded gnome was too sharp for her. 

"No, no!" he growled. "That's Dorothy Reed. Put it back! put it back!"

And Dorry, with a playful air of protest, dropped the pretty parcel intothe bag again. 

So the merry game went on; some escaped detection and saved their gifts;some were detected and lost them; but the godmother would not sufferthose who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of thegame, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all hadparcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do butstraighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak--and if itwasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to beout of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had knownall along it was he. 

"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now--" starting in pursuit--"let's see whothe white gnome is!"

They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very muchastonished when Ed Tyler came to light. 

"That is a royal game!" declared some. "Grand!" cried others. "Fine!""First-rate!" "Glorious!" "Capital!" "As good as Christmas!" said therest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing. 

Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things byhalves, and he certainly had distinguished himself in the "Thank-you"game. Every gift was worth having. There were lovely bon-bon boxes, pretty trinkets, penknives, silver lead-pencils, paint-boxes, puzzles, thimbles, and scissors, and dozens of other nice things. 

What delighted "Oh, oh's!" and merry "Ha, ha's!" rang through that bigparlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, hadgreat fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade. " After a dealof laughter and merry bargaining, the gifts became properly distributed, and then the piano and violin significantly played "Home, Sweet Home!"Soon sleigh-bells were jingling outside; Jack was stamping his feet toknock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving theManning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from thevillage were speeding chuck-a-ty-chuck, cling, clang, jingle-y-jing, along the broad carriage-way. 

Ah! what a bundling-up time! What scrambling for tippets, shawls, hoods, and cloaks; what laughter and frolic; what "good-byes" and "good-byes;"what honest "thank-you's" to Mr. Reed; and what shouting and singing andhurrahing, as the noisy sleigh-loads glided away, and above all, what an"Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald, standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle fromthe door. 

 * * * * *

And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamedtill morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's couldsettle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to hisroom. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up, " asshe expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudgedsleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably putaway for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins, were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room. 

"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"

"Never saw anything like it, " said Donald. "Every one was delighted;Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what isit? What did you want to show me?"

"I don't know, myself, yet, " she answered. "It fell out of an old trunkthat we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't. Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthestroof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up thethings and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of aparcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But myroom was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out inthe barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, Ifelt nervous about looking at it alone. "

"Fetch it out, " said Donald. 

She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two orthree old copy-books. 

"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy, " exclaimed Dorry, in atone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade ofdisappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?

"It's not copy-writing at all, " said Don, peering into the first one, "why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read, "'Kate Reed. ' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"

"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale withexcitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands. 

"No, Dorry, " he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries areprivate; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word. "

"So we must, I suppose, " assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleepa wink with it in here. " Her eyes filled with tears. 

"Don't cry, Dot; please don't, " pleaded Don, putting his arm around her. "We've been so happy all day, and finding this ought to make you all thehappier. It will tell us so much about Aunt Kate, you know. "

"No, Don, it will not. I feel morally sure Uncle will never let us readit. "

"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found thebook, and Uncle will be delighted, and we'll all read it together. "

Dorry wiped her eyes. 

"I don't know about that, " she said, decidedly, and much to herbrother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what isbest to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody toread; we'll put it back in the bureau. My, how late it must be growing, "she continued, with a shiver, as, laying the parcel in, she closed thedrawer so softly that the hanging brass handles hardly moved. "Now, good-night, Donald. "

"What a strange girl you are, " he said, kissing her bright face. "Over athing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady. "

"Good-night, old gentleman, " said Dorry, soberly, as she closed thedoor. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 

"IS Miss Dorothy in?"

"I think she is, Miss Josie. And yet, it seems as if she went over tothe Danbys'. Take a seat, Miss, and I'll see if she's in her room. "

"Oh, no, Kassy! I'll run up myself and surprise her. "

So the housemaid went down stairs to her work, for she and Liddy were"clearin' up" after the house-picnic of the day before; and JosieManning started in search of Dorry. 

"I'll look in her cosey corner first, " said Josie to herself. 

Only those friends who knew the Reeds intimately had seen Dorry's coseycorner. Mere acquaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though a partof the young lady's pretty bedroom, it was so shut off by a high foldingscreen that it formed a complete little apartment in itself. It wasdecorated with various keepsakes and fancy articles--some hanging uponthe walls, some standing on the mantelshelf, and some on the cabinet inwhich she kept her "treasures. " With these, and its comfortable loungeand soft Persian rug, and, more than all, with its bright little windowover-head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the gable-roof of thesummer-kitchen, it was indeed a most delightful place for the littlemaid. And there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote letters, andthought out, as well as she could, the plans and problems of her younglife. In very cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth made thecorner doubly comfortable, and on mild days, a dark fire-board and agreat vase of dried grasses and red sumac branches made it seem to Dorrythe brightest place in the world. 

Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that now, when she lookedin and found it empty, she turned back. The cosey corner was not itselfwithout Dorry. 

"She's gone to the Danbys' after all, " thought Josie, standingirresolute for a moment. 

"I'll run over and find her. No, I'll wait here. "

So stepping into the cosey corner again, but shrugging her prettyshoulders at its loneliness, she tossed her hood and shawl upon thesofa, and, taking up a large book of photographic views that lay there, seated herself just outside the screen, where she would be sure to seeDorry if she should enter the room. Meantime, a pleasant heat came inupon her from the warm hall, not a sound was to be heard, and she wassoon lost in the enjoyment of the book, which had carried her across theseas, far into foreign scenes and places. 

But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She was over-head, in thegarret, kneeling beside a small leather trunk, which was studded withtarnished brass nails. 

How dusty it was!

"I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up here, " thought Dorry, "forthe boys poked it out from away, 'way back under the rafters. If she hadknown of it, she would have put it with the rest of the trunks. "

Dorry laid the dusty lid back carefully, noting, as she did so, that itwas attached to the trunk by a strip of buff leather inside, extendingits entire length, and that its buff-paper lining was gay with sprays ofpink rose-buds. In one of the upper corners of the lid was a labelbearing this inscription:

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | Kate Reed. | | From Papa. | | October 1849. | | For my Dolly. | ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh! it's Aunt Kate's own writing!" exclaimed Dorry, under her breath, as, still kneeling, she read the words. 

"'From Papa, '" she repeated slowly, --"_her_ Papa; that was Donald's andmy Grandfather. And she wrote this in October, 1849--ten whole yearsbefore we were born! and when she was only a little girl herself!"

Then, with reverent hands Dorry lifted the top article--a soft, pinkmuslin dress, which had a narrow frill of yellowish lace, basted at theneck. It seemed to have been cast aside as partly worn out. Beneath thislay a small black silk apron, which had silk shoulder-straps, borderedwith narrow black lace, and also little pockets trimmed with lace. Dorry, gently thrusting her hand into one of these pockets, drew forth abit of crumpled ribbon, some fragments of dried rose-leaves, and asilver thimble marked "K. R. " She put it on her thimble-finger; itfitted exactly. 

"Oh dear!" thought Dorry, as, with flushed cheeks and quick-beatingheart, she looked at the dress and apron on her lap, "I wish Don wouldcome!" Then followed a suspicion that perhaps she ought to call him, andUncle George too, before proceeding further; but the desire to go on wasstronger. Aunt Kate was hers, --"my aunty, even more than Don's, " shethought, "because he's a boy, and of course doesn't care so much;" andthen she lifted a slim, white paper parcel, nearly as long as the trunk. It was partly wrapped in an old piece of white Canton crape, embroideredwith white silk stars at regular intervals. Removing this, Dorry wasabout to take off the white paper wrapper also, when she caught sight ofsome words written on it in pencil. 

"Dear Aunt Kate!" thought Dorry, intensely interested; "how carefullyshe wrapped up and marked everything! Just my way. " And she read:

 _My dear little Delia: I am fourteen to-day, too old for dolls, so I must put you to sleep and lay you away. But I'll keep you, my dear dolly, as long as I live, and if I ever have a dear little girl, she shall wake you and play with you and love you, and I promise to name her Delia, after you. Kate Reed. August, 1852. _

With a strange conflict of feeling, and for the moment forgettingeverything else, Dorry read the words over and over, through her tears;adding, softly: "Delia! That's why my little cousin was named Delia. "

And, as she slowly opened the parcel, it almost seemed to her thatCousin Delia, Aunt Kate's own little girl, had come back to life and wassitting on the floor beside her, and that she and Delia always would betrue and good, and would love Aunt Kate for ever and ever. 

But the doll, Delia, recalled her. How pretty and fresh it was!--a sweetrosy face, with round cheeks and real hair, once neatly curled, but nowpressed in flat rings against the bare dimpled shoulders. The eyes wereclosed, and when Dorry sought for some means of opening them, she founda wire evidently designed for that purpose. But it had become so rustyand stiff that it would not move. Somehow the closed eyes troubled her, and before she realized what she was doing, she gave the wire such avigorous jerk that the eyes opened--bright, blue, glad eyes, that seemedto recognize her. 

"Oh, you pretty thing!" exclaimed Dorry, as she kissed the smiling faceand held it close to her cheek for a moment. "Delia never can play withyou, dear; she was drowned, but _I'll_ keep you as long as I live--Who'sthat? Oh, Don, how you startled me! I am so glad you've come. "

"Why, what's the matter, Dot?" he asked, hurrying forward, as she turnedtoward him, with the doll still in her arms. "Not crying?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm not crying, " she said, hastily wiping her eyes, andsurprised to find them wet. "See here! This is Delia. Oh, Don, don'tlaugh. Stop, stop!"

Checking his sudden mirth, as he saw Dorry's emotion, and glancing atthe open trunk, which until now had escaped his notice, he began tosuspect what was the matter. 

"Is it Aunt Kate's?" he asked, gravely. 

"Yes, Don; Aunt Kate's doll when she was a little girl. This is thetrunk that I told you about--the one that the diary fell out of. "

A strong, boyish step was heard coming up the garret stairs: "Who is it?Run, Don, don't let any one come up here!" begged Dorry. 

"It's Ed Tyler, --Hold up, Ed!" cried Don, obediently. "I'll be there ina minute. " Then hurriedly kissing Dorry, and with a hearty "Cheer up, little sister!" he was gone. 

Don's pleasant tone and quick step changed the current of Dorry'sthoughts. More than this, a bright beam of sunlight now shone throughthe dusty window. Sobbing no longer, she carefully wrapped the doll inthe same paper and piece of silk that had held it for so many years. Asshe arose, holding the parcel in her hand, the pink dress and black silkapron on her lap fell to the floor. 

A sudden thought came to her. Dorry never could remain sad very long ata time. She hastily opened the parcel again. 

"Lie down there, Delia dear, " she said, gently placing the doll on therose-buds of the still open trunk-lid. "Lie down there, till I put onthese things. I'm going to take you down to see your uncle!"

"Won't he be astonished though!" murmured Dorry, as, half smiling, halfsighing, she took off her dress in great excitement, and put on, firstthe pink muslin, and then the black silk apron, fastening them at theback as well as she could, with many a laborious twist and turn of herwhite arms, and with a half-puzzled consciousness that the garments werea perfect fit. 

The dress, which was high at the neck, had short sleeves, and wasgathered to a belt at the waist. Tying the apron at the back, so thatthe ends of its black ribbon bow hung down over the full pink skirt, sheproceeded to adjust the silk straps that, starting in front at the belt, went over the shoulders and down again at the back. 

As she did this, and perceived that each strap was wide on the top andtapered toward the belt, it struck her that the effect must be quitepretty. Bending to take up Delia, she saw, for the first time, among thebits of calico and silk lying in the bottom of the trunk, what proved tobe a wide-brimmed straw hat. In another moment it was on her head, andwith a quick little laugh, she caught up Delia and ran down the stairs. 

 * * * * *

Looking neither to right nor left, Dorry sped down the next flight;across the hall, on tiptoe now, and so on to the study door, which stoodajar just enough to admit her slight figure. 

Mr. Reed, who sat at the table busily writing, did not even look upwhen she entered. 

"How d'ye do?" she exclaimed, courtesying to her uncle, with the doll inher arms. 

He sprang to his feet in amazement. 

"Don't be frightened. It's only Dorry. I just wanted to surprise you!See, " she continued, as he stood staring wildly at her, "I found allthese things up stairs. And look at the dolly!"

By this time the hat had fallen off, and she was shaking her tumbledhair at him in a vehement manner, still holding Delia in her extendedarms. 

"Good-bye, Ed!" rang out Donald's clear voice from the piazza, and in aninstant he was looking through the study window, much surprised to see aquaint little pink figure folded in Uncle George's embrace, whileDorry's voice was calling from somewhere: "Be careful! Be careful!You'll break Delia!"

 * * * * *

Ed Tyler, sauntering homeward, met Josie Manning on her way to theDanbys'. "I think Dorry has gone to see Charity Danby, " she said, "andI'm going after her. I've been waiting at her house, ever so long. "

"I've been at Don's too, " said Ed. "Just come from there. "

Josie laughed. "As if I didn't know that, " she said. "Why, I was inDorry's room all the time. First I heard Don run up to the garret forsomething, then you went up after him, and then you both passed downagain, and out upon the piazza. I suppose you went to the oldcarriage-house, as usual, didn't you?"

[Illustration: JOSIE MANNING WAITS FOR DORRY. (See page 156. )]

"Of course we did. We're turning it into a first-class gymnasium. Mr. Reed has given it to Don outright, and I tell you it will be a bigthing. Jack's helping us. Don has saved up lots of pocket-money, and Mr. Reed gives him all the lumber he wants. Just you wait. But, by the way, Dorry isn't out. Don told me himself she was rummaging up in thegarret. "

"Why, that's queer!" was Josie's surprised exclamation. "Then it musthave been Dorry who ran down stairs. It couldn't be though; some one, with a hat on and a short-sleeved pink dress, went by like a flash. "

"Don't you know Dorry Reed yet?" laughed Ed, "she is always dressing up. Why, one day when I was there, she came into Don's room dressed like anold woman, --cap, crutch, corked wrinkles and all complete; never sawanything like it. What a little witch she is!"

"I think she's an angel!" said Josie, warmly. 

"A pretty lively angel!" was Ed's response. 

But the tone of admiration was so genuine that it satisfied even JosieManning. 

 * * * * *

"Well!" exclaimed Donald, noting Dorry's strange costume, as he enteredthe room, after shouting a second good-by to Ed Tyler. 

"Well!" echoed Dorry, freeing herself from her uncle's arms, and with alittle jump facing Donald, --"what of it? I thought I'd pay Uncle a visitwith my pretty doll-cousin here" (hugging Delia as she spoke), "and hestarted as if I were a ghost. Didn't you, Uncle?"

"I suppose I did, " assented Mr. Reed, with a sad smile. "In fact, Dorry, I may as well admit, that what is fun to you, happened, for once, not tobe fun to me. "

"But it _wasn't fun_ to me!" cried that astonishing Dorry. "It was--itwas--tell him, Don; _you_ know. "

There was no need for Don to speak. Dorry's flushed cheeks, shiningeyes, and excited manner told their own story; and both her brother anduncle, because they knew her so well; felt quite sure that in a momentDorothy's own self would have a word to say. 

Still folding the dolly to her heart and in both arms, and with theyearning look of a little child, the young girl, without moving from themiddle of the room, looked wistfully toward the window, as though shesaw outside some one whom she loved, but who could not or would not cometo her. Then she stepped toward her uncle, who had seated himself againin the big chair, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said earnestly:

"Uncle, I've been brought nearer to Aunt Kate to-day than ever in mylife before, and the lonely feeling is almost all gone. I found a littleold trunk, far back under the rafters, with her doll in it, her clothesand her writing; and now I see how _real_ she was, --not like a dream, asshe used to seem, but just one of us. You know what I mean. "

"A trunk, Dorry! What? Where?" was all the response Uncle George made, as, hastening from the room, he started for the garret, keeping ahead ofthe others all the way. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

DORRY ASKS A QUESTION. 

DONALD and Dorothy followed their uncle closely, though he seemed tohave forgotten them; and they were by his side when he reached thelittle treasure-trove, with its still opened lid. 

Paying no attention to their presence, Mr. Reed hurriedly, but with thetenderest touch, took out every article and examined it closely. 

When he came to the diary, which Dorry that day had restored unopened tothe trunk, he eagerly scanned its pages here and there; then, to thegreat disappointment of the D's he silently laid it down, as ifintending later to take it away with him. 

"May we see that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, softly. "Isn't it right for us toread it? We found out it was her diary; but I put it back. "

Without replying, Uncle George went on with his examination. Finally, replacing the last article in the trunk, he closed the lid with ahopeless air, and turned toward Dorry, saying:

"Dorothy, where is that doll? It must go back where you found it, andthe clothes too. "

She handed it to him without a word--all her hope turned to bitterness. 

But as he took it, noting her grieved expression, he said:

"Thank you, my dear. You are too old to play with dolls--"

"Oh, Uncle, it is too bad for you to speak so! You _know_ I didn't meanto _play_ with it. It isn't a dolly to me; she's more like--likesomething with life. But you can shut her up in the dark, if you wantto. "

"Dorry! Dorry!" said Don, reproachfully. "Don't be so excited. "

In a flash of thought, Dorry made up her mind to speak--now or never. 

"Uncle!" said she, solemnly, "I am going to ask you a question; and, ifit is wrong, I can't help it. What is the reason that you always feel sobadly when I speak of Aunt Kate?"

He looked at her in blank surprise for an instant; then, as she stillawaited his reply, he echoed her words, "Feel badly when you speak ofAunt Kate! Why, my child, what do you mean?"

"I mean, Uncle dear, that there is a secret in the house; something youhave never told Don and me. It's always coming up and making mischief, and I don't think it's right at all. Neither does Don. "

"That's so, Uncle, " said Donald, emphatically; "we feel sure there issomething that gives you trouble. Why not let us share it with you?Remember, we are not little children any longer. "

The uncle looked quickly from one to the other, mentally deciding thatthe children could be told only the facts that were positively known tohim; then seating himself on the corner of a large chest, he drew Donand Dorry towards him. 

"Yes, my children, " he said, in his own hearty way, as if already a loadhad been taken from his mind, "there is something. It is right that Ishould tell you, and this is as good a time as any. Put the doll away, Dorry" (he spoke very gently now), "wherever you please, and come downstairs. It is chilly up here--and, by the way, you will catch cold inthat thin gown. What have we been thinking of all this while?"

"Oh, I'm as warm as toast, Uncle, " she replied, at the same time takingher pretty merino dress from the old chair upon which she had thrown it, scarcely an hour ago; "but I suppose it's always better to be on thesafe side, as Liddy says. "

"Much better, " said Uncle, nodding with forced cheerfulness. "Down withyou, Dot. We'll join you in a minute. "

Dorry, as she left them, saw her uncle stooping low to peer into the farroof-end of the garret, and she had time to place Delia carefully in hertreasure-cabinet, put on the warmer dress, and be ready to receive heruncle and Donald before they made their appearance. 

"May we be your guests, Dot?" asked Uncle George, at her door. 

"Oh, yes, sir; come right in here, " was her pleased response, as, witha conflict of curiosity and dread, Dorry gracefully conducted them intoher cosey corner. 

"It is too pretty and dainty here for our rough masculine tread, eh, Don?" was Mr. Reed's remark, as, with something very like a sigh, heplaced himself beside Dorry upon the sofa, while her brother took a seatclose by. 

"Well, " began Dorry, clasping her hands tightly, and trying to feelcalm. "We're ready now, Uncle. "

"And so am I, " said he. "But first of all, I must ask you both not tomagnify the importance of what I am going to reveal. "

"About Aunt Kate?" interposed Dorry. 

"About Aunt Kate. Do not think you have lost her, because she wasreally--no, I should say not exactly--"

"Oh, " urged Dorry, "don't stop so, Uncle! Please do go on!"

"As I was about to say, " resumed Mr. Reed, in a tone of mild rebuke atthe interruption, "it really never made any difference to me, nor toyour father, and it should make no difference to you now. You know, " hecontinued, with some hesitation, "children sometimes are adopted intofamilies; that is to say, they are loved just the same, and cared forjust the same, but they are not own children. Do you understand?"

"Understand what, please, Uncle? Did Aunt Kate adopt any one?" askedDorry. 

"No, but my father and mother did; your grandfather and grandmotherReed, you know, " said he, looking at the D's in turn, as though he hopedone of them would help him. 

"You don't mean, Uncle, " almost screamed Dorry, "that it was that--thathorrid--"

Donald came to her assistance. 

"Was it _that man_, Uncle?" he asked, quickly. "Ben Buster told me thefellow claimed to be related to us; was _he_ ever adopted by GrandfatherReed?"

"Ugh!" shuddered Dorry. 

Very little help poor Uncle George could hope for now from the D's. Theonly way left was to speak out plainly. 

"No, not that man, my children; but Aunt Kate. Aunt Kate was an adopteddaughter--an adopted sister; but she was in all other respects one ofour family. Never was daughter or sister more truly beloved. When shecame to us she was but two years old, an orphan. Grandpa and GrandmaReed had known her parents, and when the little"--here Mr. Reed hastilyresolved to say nothing of Eben Slade for the present--"the little girlwas left alone in the world, destitute, with no relatives to care forher, my father and mother took her into their home, to bear their nameand to be their own dear little daughter. 

"When Aunt Kate was old enough, they told her all; but it was her wishthat we boys should forget that we were not really her brothers. Thiswas before we came to live in this house. 

"Our Nestletown neighbors, never hearing anything of the adoption, naturally supposed that little Kate Reed was our own sister. The secretwas known only to our relatives, and one or two old friends, and toLydia, who was Kate's devoted young nurse and attendant. In fact, wenever thought anything about it. To us, as to the world outside, she wasKate Reed--the joy and pride of our home--our sister Kate to the verylast. So it really made no serious difference. Don't you see?"

Not a word from either of the listeners. 

"Of course, Dorry darling, " he said, coaxingly, "this is very strangenews to you; but you must meet it bravely, and, as I said before, without giving it undue importance. I wish now that, from the first, youand Donald had been told all this; but indeed your Aunt Kate was alwaysso dear to me that I wished you to consider her, as she consideredherself, a relative. It has been my great consolation to think and speakof your father and her as my brother and sister, and to see you, day byday, growing to love and honor her memory as she deserved. Now, do younot understand it all? Don't you see that Aunt Kate is Aunt Kate still?"

"Yes, indeed. _I_ say so, most decidedly, " broke forth Donald. "And I amvery glad you have told us, Uncle. Aren't you, Dorry?"

Dorry could not speak, but she kissed Uncle George and tried to feelbrave. 

"Mamma and Aunt Kate were great friends, weren't they?" Donald asked. 

"Yes, indeed. Though they became acquainted only a few months beforeyour parents married and departed for Europe, they soon became very fondof each other. "

"Then, Uncle, " pursued Donald, "why didn't _you_ know mother too? Ishould think she would have come here to visit Aunt Kate sometimes. "

"As your mother was an only child, living alone with her invalidfather, she was unwilling to leave him, and so Aunt Kate visited herinstead. I wish it had been different, and that I could speak to you andDorothy more fully of your mother, whom I rarely saw. We all know thatshe was good and lovely, but I should like to be able to bring herfamiliarly to your minds. This old home would be all the dearer, if itcould be associated with thoughts of your mother and happy days whichshe had passed here with Aunt Kate. "

At this point Mr. Reed was summoned to his study. A gentleman from townhad called to see him on business. 

"Keep up a good heart, my girl, " he said, tenderly, to Dorry, as he lefther, "and as soon as you feel like it, take a run out-of-doors withDonald. The bracing air will drive all sad thoughts away. "

Dorry tried to smile pleasantly, as she promised to follow his advice. She even begged Don not to wait any longer, assuring him that she wouldgo out and join him very soon. 

"That's a good old Dot, " said Don, proudly. "I'll wait for you. Where'syour hat?"

"No, you go first, Don. I'll be out soon. I really will. "

"All right. Ed's out there again by this time. You'll find us in thegymnasium. " And off he ran, well knowing that Dorry's heart was heavy, but believing that the truest kindness and sympathy lay in making aslight as possible of Uncle George's revelation; which, in his boyishlogic, he felt wasn't so serious a thing after all, if looked at in theright spirit. 

Dorothy waited until he was out of sight, and then sat down to think itall over. 

The result was that when Liddy chanced to pass through the hall, a fewmoments later, she was startled by hearing half-suppressed sobs. 

According to the custom of the house, which made the cosey corner a sortof refuge for Dorry, the good woman, upon entering at the open door, stood a moment wondering what to do. But as the sound of another littlesob came from behind the screen, she called out in a cheery voice:

"May I come in, Miss Dorry dear?"

"Y-yes, " was the answer. "Oh, Liddy, is that you? Uncle has told us allabout it. "

"Sakes alive!" cried Liddy, holding up her hands in dismay--"not toldyou _everything_?"

"Yes, he has, " insisted Dorry, weeping afresh, as Lydia's manner seemedto give her a new right to consider that an awful fact had been revealedto her. "I know now all about it. I haven't any Aunt Kate at all. I'ma-all alone!"

"For shame, Miss Dorry; how can you talk so? You, with your blesseduncle and your brother, to say nothing of them who have cherished you intheir arms from the day you were a helpless baby--for shame, Miss, tosay such a thing!"

This was presenting matters in a new light. 

"Oh, Liddy, you don't know about it. There's no Aunt K-Kate, anyway, "sobbed Dorry, rather relieved at finding herself the subject of a goodscolding. 

"There isn't, eh? Well, I'd like to know why not!" retorted Lydia, furtively wiping her eyes. "I guess there _is_. I knew, long before youwere born, that she was a dear little adopted girl. But what of that?that doesn't mean she wasn't ever a little girl at all. Don't you know, Miss Dorry, child, that a human being's a human being, and folks carefor 'em for what they are? It wasn't just belonging to this or thatfamily made Miss Kate so lovely, --it's what she was herself; and I cancertify to her bein' as real as you and me are--if that's all that'swanted. "

By this time Dorry, though half-comforted, had buried her face in thesofa-pillow. 

"Not that I can't feel for you, poor dear, " Liddy continued, gentlypatting the young girl's shoulder, but speaking more rapidly, "many'sthe time I've wept tears, just to think of you, longing with all yourlittle heart for a mother. I'm a rough old body, my dove, and what areyour dear good uncle and Master Donald but menkind, after all, and it'snatural you should pine for Aunty. Ah, I'm afraid it's my doings thatyou've been thinkin' of her all these days, when, may be, if I'd knownyour dear mother, which I didn't, --and no blame to me neither, --Iwouldn't always have been holding Miss Kate up to you. But she was adarling, was your Aunt Kate, as you know by her picture downstairs--don't you, dear?"

Dorry nodded into the cushion, by way of reply. 

Liddy gazed at her a moment in sympathizing silence, and then, in a morecheerful tone, begged her to rouse herself. 

"It won't do any good to fret about it, you know, Miss Dorry. Come, now, you'll have the awfulest headache that ever was, if you don'tbrighten up. When you're in trouble, count your blessings--that's what Ialways say; and you've a big share of 'em after all, dear. Let me makeyou a nice warm cup of tea--that'll build you up, Miss Dorry. It alwayshelps me when I--Sakes! what's that?"

"What's what, Liddy?" said Dorry, languidly raising her head from thepillow. "Oh, that's--that's _her_--that's Aunt Kate's frock and apron. Yes, and here's something else. Here's Delia--I'll show her to you. "

And so saying, she rose and stepped toward the cabinet. 

"Show me Delia! Merciful heavens, " cried Liddy, "has the child lost hersenses?"

But the sight of the doll reassured her. 

"Oh, that's Delia, is it?" she asked, still wondering; "well, where inthe world did it come from?"

Dorry told her all about the discovery of the little trunk that had beenhidden in the garret so many years. 

"Oh, those miserable house-cleaners!" was Liddy's wrathful comment. "Only to think of it! We had 'em workin' up there when you twins weretoo little to spare me, and I've never felt easy about it since, nortrusted any one but myself to clean that garret. To think of theirpushin' things in, 'way out of sight and sound like that!"

This practical digression had a good effect on Dorry. Rousing herself tomake the effort, she bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and seizing herhat and shawl, started with a sigh to fulfil her promise to Donald. 

And all this time, Liddy sat stroking and folding the little pink dressand black apron. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE GYMNASIUM. 

WHEN Dorry reached the "gymnasium, " as Ed and Don called it, she couldnot help smiling at the grand title they had given prematurely to a veryunpromising-looking place. 

The building had been a fine carriage-house in its day, but of late ithad been used mainly by Jack, as a sort of store-house for old barrels, boxes, wheels, worn-out implements, and odds and ends of various kinds. Its respectable exterior had saved it from being pulled down when thenew carriage-house was built. Besides Jack's appropriation of a portionof the building, Donald had planked off one end for his own specialpurposes, --first as a printing-office, later as a carpenter's shop, --andDorothy had planted vines, which in summer surrounded its big windowwith graceful foliage; and so it had come to be looked upon as thespecial property of Jack and the D's. 

Consequently, when Donald asked Mr. Reed to allow him to sell or sendaway the rubbish, and, with the proceeds of the sale of the old iron, added to his own saved-up pocket money, to turn the place into agymnasium, his uncle not only gave free consent, but offered to let himhave help and material, in case the young man should fall short offunds--as he most undoubtedly would. 

The project was but a few days old at the time of the house-picnic, butbeing a vigorous little project, with life in its veins, it grew andprospered finely. Sailor Jack entered heartily into the work--the moreso as his gallant fancy conceived the idea of some day setting up nearby a sort of ship's-rigging with shrouds and "ratlines, " in which togive the boys lessons, and occasionally disport himself, by way ofrelief, when his sea-longing should become too much for him. Plans andconsultations soon were the order of the day, and Dorry, becominginterested, learned more about pulleys, ropes, ladders, beams, strengthof timber, and such things, than any other girl in the village. 

The building was kept moderately warm by an old stove, which Jack hadset up two years before, when Don and Dorry had the printing-press fever(which, by the way, had broken out in the form of a tiny, short-livednewspaper, called _The Nestletown Boom_), and day after day the boysspent every odd moment of daylight there, assisted in many ways byDorothy. But perhaps more efficient help was rendered by Jack, when hecould spare the time from his horses, and by the village carpenter, whenthat worthy would deign to keep his engagements. 

Besides, Uncle George had agreed that the new tutor should not beginwith his pupils until after the Christmas holidays, now close at hand. 

Under this hearty co-operation, the work prospered wonderfully. 

[Illustration: DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM. ]

Pretty soon, boys who came to jeer remained to try the horizontal bar, or the "horse, " or the ladder that stretched invitingly overhead fromone end of the building to the other. By special suggestion, Don's andDorry's Christmas gifts from Uncle were a flying-course, a swinging-bar, and a spring-board. Jack and Don carted load after load of sawdust fromthe lumber-mill--to soften the deck in case of a slip from the rigging, as Jack explained to Lydia--and presto! the gymnasium was in fulloperation. 

All of which explains why Josie Manning and Dorothy Reed boughtdark-blue flannel, and sent to town for the latest pattern for gymnasiumdresses; why Don and Ed soon exasperated them by comfortably purchasingsuits ready made; why Dorry's cheeks grew rosier; why Uncle was pleased;why Jack was proud; and why Lydia was morally sure the D's would breaktheir precious necks, if somebody didn't put a stop to it. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE "G. B. C. "

DOROTHY was made very happy one day by Uncle George handing her thelittle copy-book diary, and saying that she and Donald could read asmuch of it as they wished. 

"Oh, Don; see here!" she exclaimed, holding up the book, as Donald, byinvitation, joined her in the Cosey Corner. "It's all right. Uncle saysso. We'll begin at the first page and read every single word!"

The diary, it seemed, contained nothing startling, but it gave them anexcellent idea of Aunt Kate's happy girlhood. She spoke of many thingsfamiliar to them, and above all, they were interested in her frequentallusions to "our new dog, Nero, " evidently her own special pet. 

Poor Nero! So young then, and now so very old! This was his lastwinter. He had become blind of late and very feeble; but, nevertheless, when the end came, it was a shock to all, and a sore trial to Don andDorry. Many a time, after that day, they would stop in their sports tobend beside the little headstone under the evergreens and talk ofhim--the faithful friend they had loved all their lives, who had reachedhis prime and died of old age during their own youth. 

We must pass rapidly over the next few months, only pausing to say thatthey were busy ones for the D's. In the first place, the new tutor, asDon expressed it, was "worked by steam" and was "one of the broad-gauge, high-pressure sort;" but Uncle George noted that his nephew and niecemade great advancement under what _he_ called Dr. Sneeden's careful andearnest teaching. 

But they had, too, their full share of recreation. Don and Ed found thegymnasium not only a favorite resort in the way of pleasure, but also agreat aid to their physical development. After a few weeks' exercise, their muscles began to grow stronger and harder, and the startlingclimbs, leaps, tumbles, hand-springs and somersaults which the boyslearned to perform were surprising. 

When the summer came, Don and Ed Tyler secretly believed themselvescompetent to become members of the best circus troupe in the country, and many a boy-visitor was asked to "feel _that_, will you?" as eachyoung Hercules knotted the upper muscles of his arm in order to astonishthe beholder. Even the girls caught the spirit, and, though they wouldnot for the world have had the boys know it, they compared muscle in amild way among themselves, and Dorry's was declared by admiring friendsto be "awfully hard. "

Little Fandy Danby, too, after giving himself numberless bruises, became so expert that he finally attained the summit of his ambition byhanging from the horizontal ladder and going hand over hand its entirelength, though not without much puffing and panting and a franticflourishing of little legs. 

Don and the boys had great fun in "stumping" each other; which consistedin one performing a certain feat and challenging the others to do it, and if matched in that, then daring them to some bolder and moredifficult attempt. 

Uncle George himself took part in these contests, and, though oftenbeaten, threatened to distance them all after a few months' practice. "There's a plentiful share of limberness tied up in these old muscles, "he would say, "and when it's set free, boys, look out for your laurels!"

Well, the spring passed away and no bones were broken. Boating andbathing, berrying and other sports, came with the advancing season; butthe great feature of the summer was the G. B. C. , or Girls' Botany Club, of which Dorry was president, Josie Manning secretary, and Dr. Sneedeninspirer, advisory committee, and treasurer, all in one. Nearly all thefavorite girls joined, and boys were made honorary members whenevertheir scientific interest and zeal in hunting for botanical treasuresentitled them to that distinction. 

Ah, those were happy days! And if the honorary members were troublesomenow and then, scaring the girls half to death with lizards, toads, orharmless garter-snakes, why it was only "the boys;" and after all, itreally was fun to scream a little by way of lightening the more solidpursuits of the club. Besides, the boys often were a real help, especially in rocky places and in the marshes, and-- Well, it was lesstroublesome to have them than to do without them. 

So far, only one real shadow had fallen across the sunny hours; and thatwas when Dorry had proposed Charity Danby as a member, and some of thefoolish girls had objected on the plea that the Danbys were "poorfolks. "

"Poor folks, " indeed! You should have seen their president then! Youshould have heard her spirited remarks, her good, wholesome arguments, and seen her glowing, indignant presidential countenance! The oppositionhad been stubborn at first, gathering strength in secret and losing itin public, until at last good sense and kindliness prevailed. The motionto admit Charity as a member of the G. B. C. Was carried unanimously, and almost the first she knew about it she was a full member, eagerlysearching hill-side and meadow with the rest, and wondering deep in herinmost soul whether she ever, ever could "catch up" to the other girls. They knew so much from books, and she had been able to study so little!

Poor Charity! She was wiser than she knew. Her habit of closeobservation, and her eager desire to learn, soon made her a valuableaddition to the club. She knew where to find every wild flower of thatlocality in its season, from the trailing arbutus in the spring to thelatest bloom of the autumn, and "Charity Danby says so" soon became aconvincing argument in many a discussion. 

But we must now go back several weeks, and learn how it happened thatour busy Charity was able to accept the invitation of the G. B. C. 

 * * * * *

It was early in July; remnants of exploded fire-crackers still lingeredin the trampled grass near Mrs. Danby's white-washed fence. She--busysoul!--was superintending the mending of her home-made chicken-coop nowtrembling and quivering under the mighty strokes of Daniel David. Withone breath the mother was making suggestions to her young carpenter, andwith the next screaming to Helen and Isabella to be careful or theywould tumble into the pig-pen, when, suddenly, she saw Dorry at the backgate. 

"Massy! Here comes Dorothy Reed, looking like a fresh rose, as she is, and not a thing in the house to rights. Well, I can't help it--tenchildren so, and everything to look after. Ah, Dorothy!" continued Mrs. Danby, exchanging her silent thoughts for active speech, "walk right in, dear, and do please excuse everything. Charity's in the house, pickingup and putting away; I'd call her out, but--"

No need to finish the sentence. Dorry, with a cheery "Oh, no, indeed, thank you!" had already vanished under the morning-glories thatbrightened the doorway. 

"Bless her heart!" pursued Mrs. Danby, now talking to Daniel David, "but she's a beauty! Not that my own are humly, either. Charity's nofright, by no means, and there's your sister Amanda--why, only lastsummer Master Donald's teacher drew a picture of her, because she was sopicturesky, which I'll keep to my dying day. There, Dan Dave, you don'tneed no more slats on that side; take this broken one out here, that's agood child; it scrapes the old hen every time she goes under. Look out!You'll break the whole thing to pieces if you ain't careful. My! Howstrong boys are!"

Meantime, Dorry, as we know, had entered. The house _was_ out of order, but Charity was doing her best. With one hand she was "picking up andputting away, " and with the other stroking the bumped head of babyJamie. Though now able to walk alone, the little one had justexperienced one of his frequent tumbles, and was crying and clinging toCharity's skirts as he trotted beside her. No one else was in the room, and perhaps this was why the busy sister was softly saying to herself, as she worked:

[Illustration: "SO PICTURESKY!"]

"Queen Elizabeth was one, William-and-Mary's Mary was another, and LadyJane Grey and Queen Victoria--Oh, do hush, Jamie, dear, I've kissed ittwice already--there!"

Suiting the action to the word, she pressed her lips of healing oncemore upon Jamie's yellow hair, and lifting her head again, she saw Dorryin the doorway laughing. 

"Oh, Dorothy, how you startled me! I didn't hear you coming at all! I'mso glad! But you needn't laugh at me, Dorry--I'm only trying to remembera little hist'ry. "

"I'm not laughing at _you_, " Dorry protested, merrily. "But it was sofunny to hear you putting the English queens into the pots and pans;that was all. Here, let me help a little. Come, Jamie, sit on Dotty'slap, and she'll tell you all about Bluebeard. "

"Oh, no; that's too old for him. Tell him about the chickies, " suggestedCharity, in a business-like way, as, disengaging her gown from his babyclutch, she sprang upon a chair, in order to put something away on thehighest shelf of the dresser. 

"It's no use, " she said, jumping down again, almost angrily, and raisingher voice to be heard above Jamie's outcry. "Oh, dear, what _does_ makeyou so naughty, Baby?"

"He isn't naughty, " said Dorry, soothingly; "he's only tired of beingindoors. Come, Jamie, we'll go out and play chickie till Charity getsthrough, and then we'll all take a nice walk. "

Jamie seized Dorry's hand instantly, and out they went. 

"Be careful!" called Charity, after her, setting a chair down hard atthe same time. "Look out, or he'll get right under the cow's feet; healways does. "

"I'll be careful, " sang out Dorry. "Come as soon as you can. Thisdelightful air will do you good. " Then, seeing Ellen Eliza, theten-year-old Danby girl, standing not far from the house, she led Jamietoward her. 

[Illustration: "HE'S COMPLAININ'. "]

Ellen Eliza had a very tender heart. Every one who knew Mrs. Danby hadheard of that tender heart more than once; and so Dorry was not in theleast surprised to find Ellen Eliza in the act of "comforting" adraggled-looking fowl, which she held tenderly in her arms in spite ofits protest. 

"Is it hurt?" asked Dorry. 

Ellen Eliza looked up with an anxious countenance as she murmured:

"Oh, no, not exactly hurt; he's complainin'. I think he's hungry, but hewon't eat. "

"Dear me!" was Dorry's unfeeling comment; "then I'd let him go hungry, Icertainly should. "

"Oh, no, you couldn't be cruel to a poor sick rooster!" Here Ellen Elizapressed the uneasy fowl to her heart. "May be, he has a sore throat. "

"Do you know what _I_ think?" said Dorry, quite disregarding thepatient's possible affliction. 

"What?" asked Ellen Eliza, plaintively, as if prepared to hear that herfeathered pet was going into a rapid decline. And Dorry went on:

"_I_ think that if people with tender hearts would remember theirsisters sometimes, it would be--"

"What do you mean?" interrupted the astonished Ellen Eliza, releasingthe now struggling bird as she spoke. 

Dorry laid her hand kindly on the little girl's shoulder. 

"I'll tell you, " she said. "If I were you, I'd help Charity more. I'dtake care of this dear little brother sometimes. Don't you notice howvery often she is obliged to stay from school to help with the work, andhow discouraged she feels about her lessons?"

"No!" answered Ellen Eliza, with wide-open eyes. "I didn't ever noticethat. I think it's nice to stay home from school. But, anyhow, Charitywouldn't trust me. She dotes on Jamie so. She's always been afraid I'dlet him fall. "

Dorry smiled. 

"Oh, that was long ago, Ellen. Jamie can walk now, you know, and if youlook after him sometimes, you'll soon be able to help Charitywonderfully. "

"All right!" was Ellen Eliza's cordial answer. "I'll do it. Somehow, Inever thought of it. But I often help Mother. She says I'm thebest-hearted of all the children, and so I am. You see if I don't helpCharity after this. "

The conversion seemed too sudden to be very lasting; but Ellen Eliza, who was really sincere, proceeded at once to put her new resolution intopractice. To be sure, her renowned tender heart did not make her all atonce an experienced housemaid, seamstress, and nurse, as Charity was;but from that day it made her, at intervals, a willing littlehand-maiden, and so gave her sister many a leisure hour for reading andstudy. More than this, Ellen Eliza and Dorry became close friends inCharity's behalf, and one thing led to another, until Charity actuallyattended school regularly. She was behind most of the scholars, ofcourse; but very often she spent an hour in the Cosey Corner, whereDorry helped her to study her lessons. Her progress was remarkable. 

"You make everything so beautifully plain, I can't help improving, " shewould say to Dorry. And Dorry would laugh and protest that the teacherwas learning as much as the pupil, and that they were a wonderful pair, anyway. 

All this while, Charity, bright and hopeful, was doing a goodly shareof house duties, and making the Danby home more sunny with herhappiness. Little Jamie was her delight, as she was his; but she was nolonger jaded and discouraged. Ellen Eliza looked at her with pride, andwillingly submitted to the school teaching that Charity, in turn, wasable to give her. 

"I can't bear 'rithmetic, " was the tender-hearted one's comment, "but Ihave to learn my tables, else Charity'd worry, and Dorry wouldn't likeit. And jography's nice, 'cause Pa likes me to tell him about it, whenhe comes home. Soon's I get big, I mean to make Helen and Is'bella learntheir lessons like everything!"

Alas! The new educational movement met with a sudden but temporary checkin the shape of the measles. One fine day, that unwelcome visitant cameinto the house, and laid its hand on poor little Helen. In a few days, Isabella and Jamie were down beside her--not very ill, but all threejust ill enough to require a darkened room, careful nursing, and abountiful supply of Dorry's willing oranges. 

This was why Charity, for a time, was cut off from her studies, and whyshe was quite taken by surprise when word came to her of the G. B. C. , and that she was to join it, as soon as the little ones could spare her. 

You have seen Charity botanizing on the hill-side with the other girls, but to understand her zeal, you should have heard her defend the scienceagainst that sarcastic brother of hers--Daniel David. In vain thatdreadful boy hung dried stalks and dead branches all about her room, andput dandelions in her tea cup, and cockles in her hair brush--pretendingall the while that he was a good boy bringing "specimens" to his dearsister. In vain he challenged every botanical remark she made, defyingher to prove it. She always was equal to the occasion in spirit, if notin knowledge. 

One Saturday morning, though, she had her triumph, and it was an eventto be remembered. Daniel David had listened, with poorly concealedinterest, while Charity was describing a flower to Ellen Eliza, --how ithas calyx, corolla, stamens, and pistils; how some flowers have not allthese parts, but that _all_ flowers have pistils and stamens, --when he, as usual, challenged her to "prove it. "

"Very well, " said Charity, with dignity, and yet a little uneasily; "youbring the flowers, and I think I can satisfy Your Majesty. "

Out he ran, and in a moment he came back, bearing defiantly a finered-clover blossom. 

"Ha, my lady!" he said, as he handed it to her. "There's the firstflower I came to; now let's see you find your pistils and stamens andthingamies. "

Instead of replying at once, Charity looked long and silently at thepretty flower in her hand. She seemed rather puzzled and crestfallen. Daniel David laughed aloud; even Mrs. Danby and the poetic Amandasmiled. 

"Oh!" said Charity, at last, with an air of great relief. "I see it now. How funny! I never thought of it before; but the clover-blossom isn't_one_ flower at all--it's a good many flowers!"

"Ho! ho!" cried Daniel David. "That's a good one! You can't get out ofit in that way, my lady. Can she, Ma?"

Ma didn't know. None of the rest knew; but they all crowded aboutCharity, while, with trembling fingers, she carefully pulled the blossomto pieces, and discovered that every piece was a flower. "See!" sheexclaimed, eagerly. "Dozens of them, and every single onecomplete, --pistil and stamens and all! Oh, my! Isn't it wonderful?"

"I surrender, " said Daniel David. 

"But you've helped me to find out something that I didn't know before, "said the enthusiastic sister, forgiving in an instant all his pasttaunting. "I wonder if Dorothy knows it. Let's go right over and askher. "

"Agreed, " said Daniel David. "Wait till I dress up a bit. " Off he ran, whistling, and in fifteen minutes he and Charity were with Dorry in theReed sitting-room, examining the separated, tiny clover-flowers throughDonald's microscope. 

Dorothy explained to them that the clover-blossom or head is a compoundflower, because a head is made up of many flowerets, each complete initself. 

But when she went further, and told them that not only the clover, butevery dandelion and daisy in the field is made up of many flowers, evenCharity appeared incredulous, saying: "What! Do you mean to say that thedaisy, with its yellow centre and lovely white petals, is not a flower?"

"No, I don't mean that, " said Dorry. "Of course, the daisy is a flower. But it is a compound flower. What you call white petals are not exactlypetals. Anyhow, the yellow centre is made up of hundreds of very smallflowers. That's what I mean. I have seen them magnified, and they looklike yellow lilies. "

Daniel David hardly dared to say "prove it" to so elegant a creature asDorry, but his countenance was so expressive of doubt that the presidentof the G. B. C. At once proposed that he should go and gather adandelion and a daisy, for them to pull to pieces and then examine theparts under the microscope. 

All of which would have come to pass had not Donald rushed into thehouse at that moment, calling:

"Dorry! Dorry! Come up on the hill! We're going to set up the targets. "

CHAPTER XX. 

THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 

THE boys were to have a shooting-match. 

The targets, eight in number, which had been made by the boys a few daysbefore, were really fine affairs. They were painted on sheets of strongpasteboard, and were each about eighteen inches in diameter. Everycircle, from the bull's-eye to the outer ring, was carefully made out, and all the targets were of exactly the same measurements. Eight roughtripods already awaited them at the shooting-range, and each tripod hadits upright piece of eighteen-inch plank at the top, to which apasteboard target was now to be firmly fastened. 

On any ordinary occasion one or two tripods would have been sufficient, but on this special day there was to be a real "match, " and a target toeach man would be required, so that the contestants could show a clearrecord of every shot. Experience had proved this to be the best plan. 

The spot selected for the shooting-range was well adapted to thepurpose. It was a plateau or broad strip of level land, forming thesummit of the long slope that rose from the apple-orchard back of theReed mansion. At the rear or eastern limit of this level land was asteep, grassy ridge, called by the D's the second hill. 

Perhaps you will see the plateau more clearly if you read thisdescription which Dorry afterward wrote in a letter to a friend atboarding-school:

 "Don and the boys have made a rustic summer-house by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the house. It's so high up that you can look across our place from it, and see the lake in front, and the village far down at the left. It is beautiful, at sunset, looking from the summer-house, for then the lake sometimes seems to be on fire, and the trees in the orchard between us and the road send long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if they were alive. You see we really have two hills, and these are separated or joined, whichever you please, by a long level strip more than a hundred feet wide, forming a grassy terrace. I often imagine a long row of enormous giants resting there on the grass side by side, sitting on the great wide level place, with their backs leaning against the second hill, and their feet reaching nearly to the edge of the first hill. Now, I hope you understand. If you don't you will when you come here to visit me this fall. Well, it was on this level ground that we had the shooting-match I'm going to tell you about, and where something happened that I'll never, never forget as long as I live. "

While Don and Ed, assisted by the doughty Daniel, are at work setting upthe row of targets close to the base of the second hill, so that straybullets may be safely buried in the soft earth-wall, and while Dorry andCharity are watching the boys from the shady summer-house, we may lookinto Mr. Reed's study. 

He is sitting in his arm-chair by the window, but the warm breezestealing through the closed blinds is not lulling him to repose; hisface is troubled, and he holds something in his hand which he isstudying intently, though it seems to give him no satisfaction. It is asmall gold chain or necklace, with an old-fashioned square clasp. On agraceful mahogany stand close by are several articles carefully laidtogether near an open box, as though he had been examining them also. They were there when Donald knocked at the door, a few moments ago, toask his uncle to come up and see the arrangements for theshooting-match. But Mr. Reed, without unlocking the door, had said hewas very busy, and begged Don to excuse him. 

"Certainly, Uncle; but I'm sorry, " Don had replied, and even whiletrudging up the hill with the targets his mind had been busy. 

"What is the matter? Something is troubling Uncle George yet. I'venoticed it very much of late. There's more to be told, and I must soonhave a good square talk with him about it. There's no use in putting itoff for ever. --We can't excuse him from the match though. Why, it wouldspoil the whole thing not to have Uncle see it. --Wouldn't it, Dot?" heasked aloud, as Dorry at that moment joined him. 

"Wouldn't what?"

"Why, not to have Uncle here at the match. "

"I don't understand, " she said, looking puzzled. 

"Why, the study door's locked and he's very busy. I was just thinking itwould be a great shame if he shouldn't come up this afternoon at all. "

"What a ridiculous idea!" said Dorry, with a light laugh. "Why, ofcourse, Uncle will come. I'll bring him myself. "

And she did. 

Of all the merry company that came trooping up the green slope to theshooting-range that afternoon, not a brighter, happier-looking pair wasseen than Mr. Reed and Dorry, as they joined the eager crowd of boys andgirls. The little maid evidently had chased away his troubles for thatday. 

Donald was too busy to do much more than glance at them, but that glancedid him good; his hearty "Ho, Uncle!" did Mr. Reed good, too. 

After a careful inspection of the arrangements, and a few words with Donand the other boys concerning the necessary rules and restrictions forthe general safety, Mr. Reed retired to the rustic seat of honor thathad been prepared for him. The other spectators stood near by, orsettled themselves comfortably upon the turf. 

Sailor Jack stood at a respectful distance with the smallest youngstersabout him, explaining to them that they'd best "stand close, and keep asharp lookout; for dry land was a pesky dang'rous place at all times, and now, with bullets flyin' about there was no tellin' what mighthappen. But if they wanted to see right clever shootin', they could justwait a bit; for Master Donald had the sharpest eye he ever see'd in anyyoungster on sea or shore. "

There were to be eight contestants. All had arrived excepting BenBuster. He had been invited to shoot, but had loftily replied that hehad other affairs on hand, and he'd come if he could; and anyhow, they'dbest have a substitute ready. 

Mr. Reed's two rifles and Don's and Ed Tyler's were the only fire-armsto be used; for Mr. Reed had objected to a fully equipped party of younggunners ranging across his estate. But they were not like Creedmoorshooters, who must not only use their own special rifles, but must cleanthem after every shot. The Nestletown boys were used to trying borrowedweapons, and though a few had grumbled at a fellow not being allowed tobring his own gun, the spirit of sport prevailed, and every face wore alook of eager interest in the occasion. 

Ben Buster was missing, but a substitute was soon found, and the matchbegan in earnest, four on a side, --the Reds and the Blues, --each wearingribbon badges of their respective color. 

 _The Blues. _ _The Reds. _

 EDWARD TYLER, HENRY JONES, BARRY OUTCALT, WILL BURROUGHS, THEODORE HART, FRANK HENDERSON, "BEN BUSTER. " DONALD REED. 

Dorry had made the four red rosettes and Josie Manning the four blueones. Besides these, Josie had contributed, as a special prize to thebest marksman, a beautiful gold scarf-pin, in the form of a tiny rifle, and the winner was thenceforth to be champion shot of the club, ready tohold the prize against all comers. 

Ed Tyler had carefully marked off the firing line at a distance offorty paces, or about one hundred feet from the targets; and it had beenagreed that the eight boys should fire in regular order, --first a Blue, then a Red, one shot at a turn, until each had fired fifteen times inall. This was a plan of their own, "so that no fellow need wait all dayfor his turn. " In the "toss-up" for the choice of targets and to decidethe order of shooting, the Reds had won; and they had chosen to let theBlues lead off. 

As Ed Tyler was a "Blue, " and Don a "Red, " they found themselvesopponents for once. Both were considered "crack shots, " but Don soondiscovered that he had a more powerful rival in another of the"Blues"--one Barry Outcalt, son of the village doctor. It soon becameevident that the main contest lay between these two, but Don had gainedon his competitor in the sixth round by sending a fourth bullet into thebull's-eye, to Barry's second, when Ben Buster was seen strolling up thehill. Instantly his substitute, a tall, nervous fellow, nicknamedSpindle, proposed to resign in Ben's favor, and the motion was carriedby acclamation, --the Blues hoping everything, and the Reds fearingnothing, from the change. 

Master Buster was so resolute and yet comical, in his manner, thateveryone felt there would be fun if he took part. Seeing how mattersstood as to the score, he gave a knowing wink to Barry Outcalt, and saidhe "didn't mind pitchin' in. " He had never distinguished himself attarget practice, but he had done a good deal of what Dorry called"_real_ shooting" in the West. Besides, he was renowned throughout theneighborhood as a successful rabbit-hunter. 

Shuffling to his position, he stood in such a shambling, bow-leggedsort of an attitude that even the politest of the girls smiled; andthose who were specially anxious that the Reds should win felt more thanever confident of success. 

If Don had begun to flatter himself that it was to be an easy victory, he was mistaken. He still led the rest; but for every good shot he madeafter that, Ben had already put a companion hole, or its better, in hisown target. The girls clapped; the boys shouted with excitement. Everyman of the contestants felt the thrill of the moment. 

The Blues did their best; and with Outcalt and Ben on that side, Donsoon found that he had heavy work to do. Moreover, just at this stage ofthe shooting, one of the Reds seemed to contract a sudden ambition todot the extreme outer edge of his target. This made the Blues radiant, and would have disconcerted the Reds but for Don's nerve and pluck. Heresolved that, come what might, he would keep cool; and his steadinessinspired his comrades. 

"Crack!" went Don's rifle, and the bull's-eye winked in response. Aperfect shot!

"Crack!" went Ed's, beginning a fresh round, and _his_ bull's-eye didn'twink. The second ring, however, showed the bullet's track. 

"Crack!" The next Red left his edge-dot on the target, as usual. 

"Crack!" went Outcalt's rifle, and the rim of the bull's-eye felt it. 

Will Burrough's bullet went straight to the left edge of the centre. 

Hart, the third Blue, sent a shot between targets, clean into theearth-wall. 

"Crack!" went the next Red. Poor Henderson! His target made no sign. 

Ben Buster, the Blue, now put in his third centre shot. He was doingmagnificently. 

In this round, and in the next, Donald hit the centre, but it was plainthat his skill alone would not avail to win the match, unless hiscomrades should "brace up, " and better their shots; so he tried a littlegeneralship. He urged each of the three in turn not to watch the scoreof the enemy at all, nor to regard the cheers of the Blues, but to giveattention solely to making his own score as high as possible. Thisadvice helped them, and soon the Reds once more were slightly ahead ofthe Blues, but the advantage was not sufficient to insure them avictory. As the final rounds drew near, the interest became intense. Each marksman was the object of all eyes, as he stepped up to thefiring-line, and the heat of the contest caused some wild shooting; yetthe misses were so evenly divided between the two companies that thescore remained almost a tie. 

Ed Tyler advanced to the firing-line. His shot gave the Blues' score alift. 

Now for the rim-dotter. He pressed his lips together, braced everynerve, was two whole minutes taking aim, and this time put his dot verynearly in the centre!

Outcalt was bewildered. He had been so sure Jones would hit the rim, asusual, that now he seemed bound to do it in Jones's stead. Consequently, his bullet grazed the target and hid its face in the earth-wall. 

The second Red fired too hastily, and failed. 

Third Blue--a bull's eye!

Third Red--an "outer. "

Ben Buster stepped to the line. The Blues cheered as he raised his gun. He turned with a grand bow, and levelled his piece once more. Buttriumph is not always victory. His previous fine shooting had arousedhis vanity, and now the girls' applause quite flustered him. He missedhis aim! Worse still, not being learned in the polite art of masteringhis feelings, he became vexed, and in the next round actually missed histarget entirely. 

Poor shooting is sometimes "catching. " Now, neither Reds nor Bluesdistinguished themselves, until finally only one shot was left to befired on each side; and, so close was the contest, those two shots woulddecide the day. 

It lay between Ben Buster and Donald. 

Each side felt sure that its champion would score a bull's-eye, and ifboth should accomplish this, the Reds would win by two counts. But ifBen should hit the bull's-eye, and Don's bullet should fall outside ofeven the very innermost circle, the Blues would be the victors. It wassimply a question of nerve. Ben Buster, proud of his importance, marchedto position, feeling sure of a bull's-eye. But, alas, forover-confidence! The shot failed to reach that paradise of bullets, butfell within the first circle, and so near the bull's-eye that it waslikely to make the contest a tie, unless Donald should score a centre. 

Don had now achieved the feat of gaining nine bull's-eyes out of apossible fifteen. He must make it ten, and that with a confusing chorusof voices calling to him: "Another bull's-eye, Don!" "One more!" "Hecan't do it!" "Fire lower!" "Fire higher!" "Don't miss!"

It was a thrilling moment, and any boy would have been excited. Don was. He felt his heart thump and his face flush, as he stepped up to thefiring-line. Turning for an instant he saw Dorry looking at him proudly, and as she caught his glance, she gave her head a saucy, confidentlittle toss as if sure that he would not miss. 

"Ay! ay! Dot, " said Don under his breath; and, reassured by herconfidence, he calmly raised the gun to his shoulder and took carefulaim. 

It seemed an age to the spectators before the report broke upon thesudden hush of expectation. Then, those who were watching Don saw himbend his head forward with a quick motion, and for a second peeranxiously at the target. Then he drew back carelessly, but with asatisfaction that he could not quite conceal. 

A few moments later, the excited Reds came running up, wildly wavingDon's target in their arms. His last bullet had been the finest shot ofthe day, having struck the very centre of the bull's-eye. Even Bencheered. The Reds had won. Donald was the acknowledged champion of theclub. 

But it was trying to three of the Reds, and to the Blues worse than thepangs of defeat, to see that pretty Josie Manning pin the little goldenrifle on the lapel of Donald's coat. 

Little he thought, amid the cheering and the merry breaking-up thatfollowed, how soon his steadiness of hand would be taxed in earnest!

Mr. Reed, after pleasantly congratulating the winning side andcomplimenting the Blues upon being so hard to conquer, walked quicklyhomeward in earnest conversation with Sailor Jack. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

DANGER. 

THE company slowly dispersed. Some of the young folk cut across lots totheir homes; others, remembering errands yet to be attended to in thevillage, directed their course accordingly. And finally, a group of fiveboys, including Donald and Ed Tyler, started off, being the last toleave the shooting-range. They were going down the hill toward thehouse, talking excitedly about the match, and were just entering thelittle apple-orchard between the hill and the house, when they espied, afar off, a large dog running toward them. 

The swiftness and peculiar gait of the animal attracted their attention, and, on a second look, they noted how strangely the creature hung itshead as it ran. 

"Hallo!" exclaimed Don, "there's something wrong there. See! He'sfrothing at the mouth. It's a mad dog!"

"That's so!" cried Ed. "Hurry, boys! Make for the trees!"

A glance told them plainly enough that Don was right. This was aterrible foe, indeed, for a party of boys to encounter. But theapple-trees were about them, and all the boys, good and bad climbersalike, lost not a moment in scrambling up into the branches. 

All but Donald: he, too, had started for one of the nearest trees, whensuddenly it occurred to him that the girls had not all left the secondhill. Most of them had quitted the range in a bevy, when the match wasover; but two or three had wandered off to the summer-house, under theapple-tree, where they had been discussing the affairs and plans of theBotany Club. Don knew they were there, and he remembered the old ladderthat leaned against the tree; but the dog was making straight for thehill, and would be upon them before they could know their danger! Couldhe warn them in time? He would, at least, try. With a shout to hiscompanions: "The girls! the girls!" he turned and ran toward the hill athis utmost speed, the dog following, and the boys in the trees gazingupon the terrible race, speechless with dread. 

Donald felt that he had a good start of his pursuer, however, and he hadhis gun in his hand; but it was empty. Luckily, it was arepeating-rifle; and so, without abating his speed, he hastily took twocartridges from his jacket and slipped them into the chamber of the gun. 

"I'll climb a tree and shoot him!" he said to himself, "if only I canwarn the girls out of the way. "

"Girls! Girls!" he screamed. But as he looked up, he saw, descending thehill and sauntering toward him, his sister and Josie Manning, absorbedin earnest conversation. 

At first he could not utter another sound, and he feared that his kneeswould sink under him. But the next instant he cried out with all hismight:

"Back! Back! Climb the tree, for your lives! Mad dog! Mad dog!"

The two girls needed no second warning. The sight of the dreadful objectspeeding up the slope in Donald's tracks was enough. They ran as theynever had run before, reached the tree in time, and, with another girlwhom they met and warned, clambered, breathless, up the ladder to thesheltering branches. 

Then all their fears centred upon Donald, who by this time had reachedthe plateau just below them, where the shooting-match had been held. Heturned to run toward the apple-tree, when, to the horror of all, hisfoot slipped, and he fell prostrate. Instantly he was up again, but hehad not time to reach the tree. The dog already was over the slope, andwas making toward him at a rapid, swinging gait, its tongue out, itsbloodshot eyes plainly to be seen, froth about the mouth, and the jawsopening and shutting in vicious snaps. 

Dorry could not stand it; she started to leave the tree, but fell backwith closed eyes, while the other girls clung, trembling, to thebranches, pale and horrified. 

To the credit of Donald be it said, he faced the danger like a man. Hefelt that the slightest touch of those dripping jaws would bring death, but this was the time for action. 

Hastily kneeling behind a stump, he said to himself: "Now, Donald Reed, they say you're a good shot. Prove it!" And steadying his nerves withall the resolution that was in him, he levelled his rifle at theadvancing dog and fired. 

To his relief, the poor brute faltered and dropped--dead, as Donthought. But it was only wounded; and, staggering to its feet again, itmade another dash forward. 

[Illustration: "DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE AND FIRED. "]

Don was now so encouraged, so thankful that his shot had been true, that, as he raised his gun a second time, he scarcely realized hisdanger, and was almost as cool as if firing at the target on the range, although the dog was now barely a dozen feet away. This was the lastchance. The flash leaped from his rifle, and at the same moment Donaldsprang up and ran for the tree as fast as his legs could carry him. But, before the smoke had cleared, a happy cry came from the girls in thetree. He glanced back, to see the dog lying motionless upon the ground. 

Quickly reloading his gun, and never taking his finger from the trigger, he cautiously made his way back to the spot. But there was nothing tofear now. He found the poor brute quite dead, its hours of agony over. 

The group that soon gathered around looked at it and at one anotherwithout saying a word. Then Dorry spoke: "Stand back, everybody! It'sdangerous to go too near. I've often heard that. "

A hint was sufficient. Indeed, the shuddering girls already had turnedaway, and the boys now drew aside, though with rather an incredulousair. 

"It ought to be buried deep, just where it lies, " suggested Ed; andDonald, nodding a silent assent, added, aloud: "Poor fellow! Whose dogcan he be?"

"Why it's our General!" cried one of the boys. "As sure as I live it is!He was well yesterday. " Then, turning pale, he added: "Oh, I must goright home--"

"Go with him, some of you fellows, " Don said, gravely; "and Dot, supposeyou run and let Uncle know. Ask him if we shall bury it right here. "

"He will say 'yes, ' of course, " cried Dot, excitedly, as she startedoff. "I'll send Jack right back with spades. "

"Yes; but tell Uncle!" Don shouted after her. 

CHAPTER. 

A FROLIC ON THE WATER. 

DONALD had won the gratitude of many Nestletown fathers and mothers, andhad raised himself not a little in the estimation of the younger folk, by his encounter with the rabid dog. That it was a case of hydrophobiawas settled by the testimony of some wagoners, who had seen the pooranimal running across the road, but who, being fearful of having theirhorses bitten, had not attempted to stop him. Though all felt sorry for"General, " everybody rejoiced that he had been put out of his misery, and that he had not bitten any one in his mad run through the fields. 

As the summer advanced, and base-ball and running-matches proved to betoo warm work for the season, the young folk naturally took to thewater. Swimming and boating became the order of the day, and the nighttoo; for, indeed, boats shot hither and thither through many a boy'ssleep, confounding him with startling surprises and dreamland defeatsand victories. But the lake sports of their waking hours were more undercontrol. Donald and Ed Tyler, as usual, were among the most active invarious contests with the oars; and as Donald believed that no event wasabsolutely complete if Dorry were not among either the actors or thespectators, boat-racing soon grew to be as interesting to the girls asto the boys. 

The races usually were mild affairs--often impromptu, or sometimesplanned in the morning and carried into effect the same afternoon. Nowand then, something more ambitious was attempted: boys in rowing suitspractised intently for days beforehand, while girls, looking on, formedtheir own not very secret opinions as to which rowers were most worthyof their support. Some went so far as to wear a tiny bit of ribbon byway of asserting allegiance to this or that crew, which sported the samecolor in cap, uniform, or flag. This, strange to say, did not act in theleast as "a damper" on the pastime; even the fact that girls becamepopular as coxswains did not take the life out of it; all of which, asDorry said, served to show the great hardihood and endurance of theboy-character. 

After a while, Barry Outcalt, Benjamin Buster, and three othersconcocted a plot. The five held meetings in secret to complete theirarrangements, and these meetings were enlivened with much smotheredlaughter. It was to be a "glorious joke. " A boat-race, of course; andthere must be a great show of previous practice, tremendous rivalry, andpressing competition, so that a strong feeling of partisanship would bearoused; while in truth, the race itself was to be a sham. The boatswere to reach the goal at the same moment, nobody was to win, yet everyone was to claim the victory; the air was to be rent with cries of"foul!" and spurious shouts of triumph, accompanied by vehement demandsfor a "fresh try. " Then a second start was to be made--One, two, three, and off! All was to go well at first, and when the interest of thespectators was at its height, every eye strained and every heart almostat a standstill with excitement, two of the boats were to "foul, " andthe oarsman of one, in the most tragic and thrilling manner, was to fallover into the astonished lake. Then, amid the screams of the girls andscenes of wild commotion, he was to be rescued, put into his empty boatagain, limp and dripping--and then, to everybody's amazement, disregarding his soaked garments and half-drowned state, he was suddenlyto take to the oars in gallant style, and come in first at the close, rowing magnificently. 

So ran the plot--a fine one truly. The five conspirators weredelighted, and each fellow solemnly promised to stand by the rest, andnot to breathe a word about it until the "sell" should be accomplished. So far, so good. Could the joke be carried out successfully? As the lakewas public property, it was not easy for the two "fouling" boys to findopportunities for practising their parts. To make two boats collide at agiven instant, so as to upset one and spill its occupant in a purely"accidental" way, required considerable dexterity. Ben Buster had ahappy thought. Finding himself too clumsy to be the chief actor, heproposed that they should strengthen their force by asking Donald Reedto join the conspiracy. He urged that Don, being the best swimmer amongthe boys, was therefore best fitted to manage the fall into the water. Outcalt, on his part, further suggested that Ed Tyler was too shrewd tobe a safe outsider. He might suspect, and spoil everything. Better makesure of this son of a lawyer by taking him into the plan, and appointinghim sole judge and referee. 

Considerable debate followed--the _pros_ urging that Don and Ed werejust the fellows wanted, and the _cons_ insisting that neither of thetwo would be willing to take part. Ben, as usual, was the leadingorator. He was honestly proud of Don's friendship, and as honestlyscornful of any intimation that Don's better clothes and more elegantmanners enhanced or hindered his claims to the high Buster esteem. Donwas a good fellow, he insisted, --the right sort of a chap, --and that wasall there was about it. All they had to do was to let him, Ben, fetchDon and Ed round that very day, and he'd guarantee they'd be found trueblue, and no discounting. 

This telling eloquence prevailed. It was voted that the two new menshould be invited to join. And join they did. 

Though Donald generally disliked practical joking, he yielded this time. As nobody was to be hurt, he entered heartily into the plot, impelledboth by his native love of fun and by a brotherly willingness to play aninnocent joke upon Dorry, who, with Josie Manning, he knew would surelybe among the most interested of all the victimized spectators. 

A number of neat circulars, announcing the race and the names of the sixcontestants, with their respective colors, were written by the boys, andafter being duly signed by Ed Tyler, as referee, were industriouslydistributed among the girls and boys. 

On the appointed afternoon, therefore, a merry crowd met at a desertedold house on the lake-shore. It had a balcony overlooking the placewhere the race was to begin and end. 

This old building was the rendezvous of young Nestletown during boatinghours; indeed, it was commonly called "the boat-house. " Having been putup long years before the date of our story, it had fallen into a ratherdilapidated condition when the Nestletown young folk appropriated it;but it had not suffered at their hands. On the contrary, it had beencarefully cleared of its rubbish; and with its old floors swept clean, its broken windows flung open to air and sunlight, and its wallsdecorated with bright-colored sun-bonnets and boating flags, itpresented quite a festive appearance when the company assembled in it onthe day of the race. 

Fortunately, its ample piazza was strong, in spite of old age and thefact that its weather-stained and paintless railing had for years beennicked, carved, and autographed by the village youngsters. It wasblooming enough, on this sunny Saturday, with its freight of expectantgirls and boys, many of the first-named wearing the colors of theirfavorites among the contestants. 

The doughty six were in high spirits--every man of them having acolored 'kerchief tied about his head, and sporting bare, sinewy armscalculated to awe the beholder. Don was quite superb. So were Ben Busterand young Outcalt. Many a girl was deeply impressed by their air ofgravity and anxiety, not suspecting that it was assumed for theoccasion, while the younger boys looked on in longing admiration. Ed, asstarter, umpire, judge, referee, and general superintendent, rowed outwith dignity, and anchored a little way from shore. The six, each in hisshining boat, rowed into line, taking their positions for the start. Thestake-boat was moored about a third of a mile up the lake, and thecourse of the race was to be from the starting-line to the stake-boat, around it, and back. 

The balcony fluttered and murmured as Ed Tyler shouted to the sixrowers, waiting with uplifted oars:

"Are you ready?--ONE, TWO, THREE--GO!"

On the instant, every oar struck the water, the six boats crossed theline together, and the race began. 

No flutter in the balcony now; the spectators were too intent. 

Not for a moment could they imagine that it was not a genuine race. Every man appeared to bend to his work with a will. Soon Ben Buster, with long, sweeping strokes, went laboriously ahead; and now Outcalt andanother passed him superbly, side by side. Then Don's steady, measuredstroke distanced the three, and as he turned the stake-boat his victorywas evident, not only to Dorothy, but to half the spectators. Not yet. Alight-haired, freckled fellow in a blue 'kerchief, terribly in earnest, spun around the stake-boat and soon left Don behind; then came thequick, sharp stroke of Ben Buster nerved for victory, closely followedby Steuby Butler, who astonished everybody; and then, every man rowingas if by super-human exertion, inspired by encouraging cries from thebalcony, they crowded closer and closer. 

"Ben's ahead!" cried the balcony, confusedly. 

"No, Donald Reed has gained on him!"

"Don't you see! it's Outcalt! Outcalt will win!"

"No, I tell you it's Butler!"--And then, before any one could see how itwas done, the boats, all six of them, were at the line, oars wereflourished frantically, the judge and referee was shouting himselfhoarse, and the outcry and tumult on the water silenced the spectatorson the land. Cries of: "Not fair!" "Not fair!" "It won't do!" "Have itagain!" "Hold up!" "I won't stand such work!" culminated in riotousdisorder. Seven voices protesting, shouting, and roaring together madethe very waters quiver. 

But Tyler was equal to the occasion. Standing in his boat, in theidentical position shown in the picture of "Washington Crossing theDelaware, " he managed to quiet the tumult, and ordered that the raceshould be rowed over again. 

Once more the boats were in line. Again the umpire shouted: "Are youready?" and again the crowd fluttered and murmured with expectation asevery boat dashed forward. 

But what was this? Dorry and Josie, with flushed cheeks and sparklingeyes, moving rapidly as they could among the crowding spectators, andwhispering urgent words that evidently produced a strong sensation. 

Still the boats pressed on, every rower apparently outdoing himself, ifnot outdoing everything else. If cheers and shouts had inspired thembefore, the intense silence now was even more inspiring. Could anythinghave succeeded better? With every show of exertion, the rascals managedto slacken or quicken as the case required, until, when nearly home, they were all close together. 

[Illustration: THE CONSPIRATORS' PLOT IS CARRIED INTO EFFECT. ]

It was glorious! They never had known such fun in their lives. Now forthe grand business!

Donald and Outcalt came together with a crash--a perfect "foul!" Onemasterly effort--over went Don's boat and over went Don, headlong intothe water!

The boys in the other boats did beautifully, crowding about and, inspite of Don's wild struggles, catching him with oars and arms, neverhearing the screams of the girls in the suppressed mirth and wildactivity of the moment, but getting Don into his boat again, limp anddripping; and finally, with real dramatic zeal, carrying out theirentire plan--too busy and delighted with success to note its effect uponthe crowd of spectators. Everything worked to perfection. Don, scorninghis half-drowned state, dripping and uncomfortable as he was, had sprungsuddenly to his oars, and in dead earnest had won the race, againstevery mock-earnest competitor, and--

What _do_ you think?

When those six oarsmen, including the victor, looked up to receive theacclamations of the crowd, white with the waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, they heard only--silence; saw nothing but an empty piazza. Not aspectator was to be seen--not even a face at a window--not a single eyepeering through a crack. Worse than all, their judge and referee was inthe bottom of his boat, kicking with merriment. He had strength only topoint to the boat-house and gasp, between his bursts of laughter:

"Not a soul there!--they found us out!--went off before Don's ducking!"

The boat-house was, in truth, deserted. After the mysterious movementsand whisperings of Dorry and Josie, every boy and girl had sped away ontiptoe; and down in a hollow grove near the road, where they could noteven see the water, they were chatting and giggling and having the verybest kind of a time--all because they had turned the tables on thegallant seven. 

It was now well understood by these spectators who had deserted theirpost, that a second mock race had been carried on without a singleeye-witness, and the thought was rapture. How much more they would haveenjoyed it had they known of the difficult "foul, " of Donald's headlongplunge, and of the subsequent frantic and exhaustive contest of rowing!

So much for carrying out one mock race and starting another in thepresence of somebody named Dorothy, who first had suspected and then hadbeen morally sure that those boys were playing a trick! When four ofthem crossed the line at once, her suspicions were aroused. "I dobelieve they're fooling!" she had said to herself, and then, rememberingcertain mysterious conferences that Don and some others of the "seven"had been holding, coupled with a sly look or two that she had seenexchanged by the contestants, she had jumped to the correct conclusion. As she afterwards expressed it to Ed Tyler, she had seen through it allin a flash. 

Misery loves company. Those seven boys, from that day, had a peculiartenderness for one another. They were linked by a hidden bond; and whilethey laughed heartily at their own expense, and tacitly confessedthemselves beaten, they compelled all outsiders to be satisfied withguessing and with hints of the catastrophe that somehow came to light. Not one of them ever disclosed all the facts of the case, --the secretsessions, the frequent upset-practisings on cloudy evenings, thedifficulty of the final performance, and the full sum of their defeat. 

Ben, usually a kind brother, was sternness itself so far as the greatrace was concerned. Not one of the juvenile Danbys dared to allude to itin his august presence. Only on one occasion did he unbend, and that waswhen little Fandy ventured to observe that he ought to have heard whatone of the girls had said about him in the race. This remark rankledeven in that stony bosom. The more Ben Buster tried not to care, themore it tortured him. To make matters worse, he had betrayed himself toosoon to the sagacious Fandy. In vain the big brother cajoled the littleone; in vain, at cautious intervals, he tried the effect of indirectbribes and hidden threats. The more he desired to know what that girlhad said, the more Fandy wouldn't tell him. At last he triumphed. In ayielding moment, when Ben had been touchingly kind, the gratefulyoungster let it out:

"You want t' know what that girl said? It was a compliment! She said:'_How splendid your brother Ben can row!_' He! he! Now lend me yourgimlet just a minute!"

Ah, that dignified Ben! Not for the world would he have had the smallchild know how those words thrilled him. 

"Dorothy Reed said it! It sounds like her, " was Ben's ecstatic thought;but to poor Fandy's surprise and disappointment, he only muttered aloud:"There, there, that's a good little boy. Go and play!"

[Illustration: BEN'S CIDER EXPERIENCE. ]

Many a time after that, in the sanctity of the lonely fields, did Ben, rather sheepishly, repeat to himself the bewitching phrase:

"How _splendid_ your brother Ben can row!"

Judge, then, of his feelings, when one Sunday in September, Master Fandywhispered to him, rather loudly, while coming out of church, "There sheis" (pointing to a pretty little tot of seven summers)--"that's the verygirl who said it!"

Ben stared at her, speechless with disgust. 

"I might have known, " he thought, "that the little goose would call ababy like that, a girl!"

So much for Ben's private feelings. Concerning the race, the six--amongthemselves--enjoyed exceedingly the unexpected recoil of their littlejoke. I say six, for in this matter Ed Tyler was unanimously suspectedby the others of being on the fence. They never could tell whether hewas laughing at them or with them. Donald was sure that it was the verybest thing he ever heard of in his life. Outcalt protested he wouldn'thave missed it for the world; and Ben Buster, laughing rather ruefully, declared that he never knew the "beat of it" but once; and that was oneday when he had slipped into Jones's cider-yard and taken a good, longdrink, through a straw, from a barrel marked "sweet cider, " as hethought. "I tell you, fellows, " was Ben's concluding remark, "if Iwasn't sold that time, I'll give in. I was so warm and thirsty that Itook a good, long pull before I found out that it wasn't cider at all, but vinegar, sour enough to take a man's head off. What made it worsewas, the barrel was marked 'sweet-cider vinegar, ' after all. It's ablamed shame the way a fellow gets caught sometimes!"

CHAPTER XXIII. 

YANKEE AND DOODLE. 

DONALD and Dorothy exchanged but four words on the subject of the shamrace after it was over, but these were very expressive:

_Donald. _ "Well, madam!"

_Dorothy. _ "Well, sir!"

Their sparkling looks, Donald's tone of accusation and injuredinnocence, Dorothy's playful, rather defiant, air of triumph, said therest. Uncle George, who was present at the interview, having previouslyheard both sides of the story from the D's separately, was much amused. In fact, he laughed aloud in quite an undignified manner, and so didthey. 

The next day brought news of Dr. Lane, their old tutor, who had beenliving for several months in South Carolina. He was better--indeed quitewell again, and having lately accepted the position of principal of theboys' academy at F----, about ten miles from Nestletown, he proposedtaking up his abode there immediately. 

"Oh, Don, " said Dorry, as she folded the letter; "I've an idea!"

"I cannot believe it, " exclaimed Don, in well-feigned surprise. 

"Yes, but I have, " she insisted. "Dr. Lane will be at F---- by Friday. Let us ride over on Dood and Yankee and give him a welcome!"

"Agreed!"

Friday came, full of sunshine, and in a fresh, breezy way, as if to say, "Now for the ride!"--at least, so it seemed to Dorry. 

Lydia, who was shaking rugs over the wide piazza railing, was pleased tosalute Sailor Jack as he led the ponies, saddled and ready, to the door. Fine ponies they were, too, large of their kind, glossy black, withflowing tail and mane. Uncle George had given them to the D's, on theFourth of July of the previous summer; and in honor of the day they hadbeen named Yankee and Doodle. Yankee, being the more spirited, was givento Don, and Doodle, by no means a lamb, became the special pride andproperty of Dorry. 

"Good-morrow to you, Mistress Blum!" said Jack, in a subdued though airyway, returning Lydia's nod. "Are the middies ready?"

"If you mean the twins, I presume they are, Mr. Jack. Have you lookedcarefully to Miss Dorothy's saddle?"

"Not extra, " he answered, in an aggravating tone--first looking up atthe windows to be sure that none of the family were near; "think thegirth's 'most broke; 't ain't worth while to be too pertickler. "

"Yes, it is; you'd better make sure of saddle and bridle too, I cantell you. Miss Dorry'll ride twenty miles, and more, before sundown. "

"Well, well!" exclaimed Sailor Jack, still bent on teasing her. "Hadn'tyou better come down, Mistress Blum, an' see to it that the pony's legsis on good and tight? It would be dreadful if one on 'em was to tumbleoff, now. "

Lydia laughed. "Oh, but you're a funny man, Mister Jack! Well, Ineedn't worry. You're even worse about Miss Dorry than I am, blessher!--Hush, here they are!"

Off went Jack's hat, though he had to hold the two bridle-reins with onehand to accomplish it. 

"Up-a-daisy!" he exclaimed, as Dorry, assisted by Donald, sprang lightlyto her saddle. "It's a splendid day for a ride, Miss!"

"Yes, indeed, " said Dorry, looking about her with bright, happy eyes, asshe stroked her pony's neck. 

Uncle George came out upon the piazza. By this time Don was on Yankee'sback, dexterously making him appear as spirited as possible; whereatDorry's steed began to prance also. 

"Good-by, Uncle! Good-by, Jack and Liddy!" cried Dorry, waving her whipand looking back with a smiling face. 

"Good-by!" shouted Don; and they cantered off--glad to be together, gladto breathe the bright, clear air, glad at the prospect of a good gallopover the hills. 

Uncle George, Liddy, and Jack looked after them proudly, till the roadturned and the sound of hoofs died in the distance. Jack was the firstto speak. 

"Ay! but they're a pretty pair, Capt'n!"

Mr. Reed nodded a happy assent. 

"An' do you know, sir, I'm fancyin' of late they're growin' liker to oneanother. "

"Ah?" said Mr. Reed, well pleased. "In what way?"

"Why, in feature, sir, an' manners, an' most ev'ry way. "

"Why shouldn't they favor one another, " remarked Lydia--"bein' twins?Yet, some way, I don't see it myself, sir, as plain as I might. Shall Iserve dinner on the back porch, Mr. George?"

"Well, yes, Lydia, as I shall be alone. The birds and trees will be goodcompany for me. "

And so the three separated. 

Meanwhile, the D's cantered on, happy as--I was going to say, as birds, but they were happier even than birds; they were happy as happy brothersand sisters. 

For a while they galloped in silence, Don often going so far ahead thathe had to wait for Dorry to catch up; then, when the road was speciallypleasant and shady, they rode leisurely, side by side, laughing andchatting. The day was so fine, and they saw so much to interest them, and there were so many things to talk about, that the ten-mile ride toF---- was accomplished almost before they were aware of it. 

Leaving the ponies in the yard of the pretty hotel, to be fed and caredfor, they enjoyed a hearty luncheon, and then proceeded on foot to theAcademy near by--Dorry deftly carrying the train of her riding-habitover her arm, and snapping her riding-whip softly as she tripped besideher companion. Fortunately, the path was well shaded, and the dust hadbeen laid by showers of the night before. 

Dr. Lane was surprised and delighted to see them so soon after hisarrival. He had many interesting things to tell them, and they in turn, rather shyly but heartily, related the main incidents of the pastmonths, and gave him some account of their present course of study. 

Then they all went through the Academy building, which, as it wasvacation, was now being cleaned and made ready for the fall term. Globes, maps, blackboards, collections of minerals, electric machines, patent desks, dining-room, and dormitory passed before them in rapidsuccession, figuratively speaking; afterward they went up to the cupolato see the view, and finally settled themselves on the large front porchto rest. 

Then, and not till then, they noticed a change. Light clouds weregathering; the sun still was shining, but it was shining underdifficulties, as Dorry observed, and the air was heavy and sultry. 

"It's going to rain, Professor, " said Don, rising from his seat on thesteps of the porch. "I think we'll have to go now. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Dorry, in her impulsive way; "we've no time to lose, either. Good-by, Professor. What shall we say to Uncle for you?"

"Give Mr. Reed my hearty regards, and tell him I hope to see him atNestletown very soon. "

"Yes, thank you, " said Dorry, starting toward the gate. "Good-by. Come, Donald, we may be able to get home before it rains hard. "

The Professor joined her at once, and the three were soon at the hotel. At first it seemed best to wait until the approaching shower should beover; but, as the clouds grew no darker, and the ponies evidently wereready for a brisk run, it was decided that they should try a race withthe shower, and see which could get home first. 

The shower beat. They were not half-way home when, just after crossingthe railroad, with its cottage-like station in sight, the sky darkenedrapidly and a big drop fell upon Donald's nose. 

"We're in for it!" he cried. "Whip up, Dot! We'll make for the station. "

Reaching the station, and finding themselves still dry, in spite of thewarning thunder, they decided to hurry on to the next stopping-place. 

This was Vanbogen's, a little country inn about half a mile farther, where they could be housed if necessary, and the horses be shelteredalso. A sudden flash gave point to their determination. On they sped, the lightning now dancing ahead of them, and the thunder rolling onapace. 

"It's a race for life, " thought Dorry, in high spirits--so pleased tohave an adventure that she forgot to dread the threatening shower. Yankee and Dood did nobly; abandoning their canter, they galloped on, neck and neck, while their riders carried on a panting sort ofconversation concerning the new turn of things, and the prospects ofreaching home before dark. 

"What mat--ter if--we don't?" said Dorry, her voice almost lost in therumbling thunder; "Yankee--and Dood--can find--the way--if it's--pitchdark. "

"But, Uncle--ex-pected--us by--"

"Well--he'll know--what keeps--us. "

"Plucky girl!" thought Don, admiring her bright cheeks and graceful airas she at that moment dashed by. 

Yankee, on principle, never let Dood beat him. In the commotion of thethunder and lightning, it seemed to Donald that a livelier race hadbegun; but, the next instant he realized that Dorry's pony had halted, and his own was some paces ahead. 

Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something was the matter. Doodlimped painfully for a few steps, then stopped. 

"He's hurt his foot, " cried Dorry. "It wasn't a stumble; he tripped. Poor Dood!" she added, as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her, "you must go on now. "

Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew lamer at every step. Don, noticing that one of the pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted andtried to take it off, but it would not come. A turn in the roaddisclosed Vanbogen's not far away. By this time, slanting lines of rainshowed against the trees. 

"It's going to storm in earnest, Dot; you'll get soaking wet!" said Don. 

"Not I, " chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit is water-proof. You'll be thewet one. Hurry ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as we can. Ido hope he isn't hurt seriously. Oh, Don, do hurry!"

But Don wouldn't and Dood couldn't. If the shower had not paused totake breath before making its grand dash, they certainly would have beendrenched. 

As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the inn before the rain camedown in torrents. 

"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding-skirt, as she sprang into thebare hall, "our saddles will get soaked!" But a negro, in a blue-checkedjacket, already was leading the steeds to shelter. 

It was a very shabby house at the best of times, but it was particularlydreary now. Dorry was sure she never before had seen anything so dismalas the damp little parlor into which Donald escorted her. The closedblinds, the mouldy, bumpy sofa, the faded-green table-cover, the stainedmatting, the low-spirited rocking-chair with one arm broken off, and thecracked, dingy wall-paper oppressed her strangely. 

"What a horrid place!" she exclaimed in an awe-struck whisper to Don, asa flash of lightning shone through the blinds. "Let us go!"

"Don't mind it, Dot, " he answered. "We'll start as soon as the shower isover. Wait here awhile, and I'll run and see what we're to do about thepony. Would you like to have a cup of hot tea?" he added, looking backas he left the room. 

"Mercy, no!" said Dorry, "not here!"

They both laughed. "It's fun, after all, " thought the young girl as hewent out. "I don't mind anything as long as Don's around, the dear oldfellow!"

Vanbogen's seemed deserted. She had noticed a solitary hen steppingdaintily across the long wet stoop as she entered, and a woman, going upstairs, had turned to stare at her. A sound of men's voices, too, hadreached her from a closed room opposite the parlor, yet she feltstrangely alone. For company's sake she examined some faded ambrotypes, that stood upright in their half-opened cases on a table between thewindows. The ghastly things made her only more lonely. 

At that moment, hearing a clicking sound, she raised her head, and saw aman's face outside looking at her through the blinds. The slats closedsharply, when she moved back. 

"How nervous I am!" she thought, with a slight shiver. "A prettytraveller I'd make!"

Donald soon came in. 

"Here's a fine piece of business!" he said. "Dood has really injured hisfoot in some way--sprained, I suppose. It is swollen, and evidentlypains him very much. I've sent for a man who claims to be a veterinarysurgeon. No, indeed, no use in your going out there, Dot; the men appearto be doing all they can for him. It's out of the question for us totravel with that pony to-night; the last train that stops at thisone-horse station has gone by, and I can't get a carriage anywhere. "

"Can't you hire a horse, then, for yourself? Put my saddle on Yankee; Ican ride him. "

"Can't get a horse, either. They've only one, and he's out for the wholeafternoon. "

"Let's walk then. The shower is nearly over. It's only five miles. "

"Good!" said Don. "But no--Yankee can carry you, and I'll trotalongside on foot;" and he hastened out to have the side-saddle put onYankee. 

To Dorry's amazement, Donald came back in a few minutes, looking flushedand excited. "I've taken a room for you, Dot; come up stairs--quick. "

"But I don't want a room. I--"

"Yes, you do; you'll need to rest. Come right up, " he insisted in a lowvoice, hastily locking the parlor door behind him, and almost pullingher toward the stairs. "I'll tell you up there; come quick. "

They ran up together. "What's the matter?" she asked on the way. "Whathave you heard?"

"Oh, nothing at all, " he said, as he stepped into a room shabby withragged matting and worn-out furniture; then, closing the door, he added:"Dorry, you must go away from this place at once. Don't ask anyquestions! Oh, it's nothing much, Dot, " as he noticed her alarm; "butthis is a rough sort of place, you see, and of course I can't go awayand leave Dood here with these fellows. The sooner you get off, thebetter. I'll bring Yankee round to the back door at the end of the hall, so as not to attract attention. Lock your door while I'm gone, and whenI come back, hurry down with me, jump on Yankee, and be off without aword. "

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, half inclined to laugh, but he was gone. 

She turned the key in the lock and ran to the window, pulling itsgreen-paper shade aside. Nothing to be seen but tumble-downout-buildings, a dog-kennel, trampled grass, an empty clothes-line, anda barrel or two. 

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed again. "Oh, there comes the pony. "

Donald lost not a moment; but it seemed to Dorry that he never wouldcome up. Meantime she resolved that, happen what might, she would not goand leave him. Unlocking the door, she stood with her hand upon theknob, intending to discuss the matter with Don; but no sooner had hishand touched the other side than somehow she found herself on thestairs, in the hall, then on Yankee's back, and leaning to catch Don'swords. 

"Careful, now, don't lose a moment! Send Jack to me at once, with Ladyand the buggy! Go!" Even after she had started, she still seemed to feelthe pressure of his hand upon hers. Never had she seen Don moreresolutely in earnest. 

As she galloped through the open gateway, and passed the inn, she turnedand saw him in the hall, talking savagely to a man in a wet linenduster, whose back was toward her. 

"The idea of leaving Don here alone! I shall not go, " she said, suddenlypulling at the bridle. But Yankee, hungry for his supper, thoughtotherwise. He determined that she should. After a momentary contest, Dorry yielded, deciding to hurry home as fast as possible, and send Jackto Don's relief. 

The shower, which had held back for a while, now started afresh. Yankee, with visions of a dry stall and bountiful supper before him, went on his rapid way through the rain, troubling himself little aboutDood or Don, and quite unconscious of the disturbed state of his rider'smind, in which anxious thoughts and surmises chased each other in quicksuccession. 

"I noticed that it was a rough place the moment we went in. Who were thenoisy men in the other room, I wonder? The man in the wet duster wasn'tone of them. What could Don have been saying to him? May be Dood hadbroken a leg, and Don didn't like to tell me. Ridiculous idea, as if apony with a broken leg could go a step! May be Don's watch was stolen, or he'd lost his pocket-book. But he could have told me _that_. Dear me, he needn't have been so dreadfully afraid for me to stay there. It'sforlorn to be a girl, and have people think you can't stand anything. Don can take care of himself, anyhow. I'd like to see any of thosefellows trying to hurt _him_, "--and here, by way of showing how verymuch she would _like_ it, Dorry's cheek turned pale. "How foolish!Probably he stayed for Dood's sake. Poor Dood! I hope he'll not be laidup long; Jack could cure him quickly enough. Dear me, how it rains! Gladmy riding-habit is water-proof. Liddy will be frightened about me. Isuppose they think we're at F---- yet, waiting to ride home bymoonlight. How well Dr. Lane looks! But he has a fearfullyGreek-and-Latin expression. Can't help it, I suppose. Don knows nearlyas much Latin as Uncle, I do believe. Dear old Don! I How kind he is!Oh, if anything should happen to him!" Here, Yankee, already speedingbravely, received instructions to "get up, " and then Dot, to her greatjoy, spied a familiar horse and buggy in the distance, coming swiftlytoward her. 

Lady was a fast mare when Sailor Jack held the reins. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

DONALD. 

DONALD _was_ talking rather savagely when Dorothy turned and saw him inthe hall as she galloped through the opened gateway. But the man in thewet duster was not in the least vexed by Donald's manner. On thecontrary, he assumed an air of superiority, and called him "my boy. "

"All the Reeds are impetuous, " he had said lightly, as if apologizingfor this particular member of the family; "so we'll waive ceremony, myboy. With your permission, as I said before, I'll step into the parlornow, and have a little chat with the young lady. "

"And as I said before, " retorted Donald, "you'll do no such thing. "

"Calm yourself, " sneered the other. "It would be easy for me to get inthrough the window, were it not that one hates to scare the pretty bird;and as for the key--"

"As for the key, " echoed Donald, who happened to have it in hispossession; "well, and what of the key?"

"Why, my boy, " glancing toward Don's pocket, "it wouldn't tax asix-footer like me overmuch to help himself to it; but, under thecircumstances, it might be wiser merely to tell mine host in yonder roomthat an irate little manikin has taken it into his head to lock hissister, as he calls her, in the public parlor, and refuses to let herout. "

"Insolent fellow!" exclaimed Donald, yet restraining his anger as wellas he could. "Look out what you say. Another word like that, and I'llhave you turned out of this place, neck and heels. "

"Ha! ha! Pretty good. Well, as I was remarking, I've a word or two tosay to my young lady in there. Hold up! H-o-l-d up! No one is going tokill her. Perhaps you're not aware I have a right there!"

"You have a right there, I'll admit, as a traveller, " said Don; "butjust now, I ask you to stay outside. "

"And I ask you to let me in, " returned the six-footer, beginning to beangry. 

At any other time, Donald would not have parleyed a moment with the man, but, as the reader may have surmised, he had reasons of his own forprolonging the interview. He had planned well and worked quickly to getDorry off unobserved; and now that his strategy had succeeded, the nextpoint was to gain time for her to be far on her way before EbenSlade--for he it was--should discover that Dorry was not safely lockedin the dingy parlor. 

"I ask you to let me in, " repeated the long, lank man, softening histone, "as one gentleman would ask another. May be I've more right totalk to her than you have yourself. "

"What do you mean, you rascal?"

"Thank you!" sneered Eben. "_Rascal_ is good. Pray, do you know myname?"

"No, I do not; and I don't want to. It's enough that I recognize you;and probably the less one knows about you, the better. "

"May be so. But the time's gone by for that. My name's Eben Slade. _Now_do you know why I want to go into that room? No? Well, I'll tell you, "continued Eben Slade; "it's because I've more right to speak to thatgirl than you have. It's because--Hi! hi! not so fast, young man, "muttered Eben, restraining Donald with considerable effort. "You can'tput me out on the road this time. As I was saying--"

"What do you mean by those words, sir?"

"Let me into the room, my boy, and I'll tell you and her together, quietly, just what I mean. I want to tell both of you a plain story, andappeal to _her_ sense of justice. She's old enough to act for herself. Perhaps you think I haven't heard something of Dorothy's, orwhat-you-call-her's, spirit by this time. "

"Let her name alone!" cried Donald, furiously. "If you mention my sisteragain, I'll knock you flat, you overgrown ruffian!"

"Hush, not so fast! You'll have those fellows out here in a minute. What's the use of letting everybody into our private affairs?"

Here Eben stepped further into the hall, followed by Donald. 

"Let me into that room, will you?"

Donald, taking the key from his pocket, now threw open the door, with a"much good may it do you;" and, closing it again after Slade hadentered, coolly locked him in the room. The blinds flew open. Don rushedout to the still deserted stoop, only to see Eben Slade's angry faceglaring at him from the window. The man could have got through thewindow easily enough, but he preferred his present position. Leaningout, with his elbows on the sill, he said distinctly, in a passionate, low voice:

"You've baffled me this time, Donald Reed, but I'll carry the day yet. That girl, wherever she's gone to, is no more your sister than she ismine, and I can prove it to her! She's my niece--my own sister's child!I've a right to her, and I can prove it. She's going back home with me, out West, where my wife's waitin' for her. Now, sir, what have you tosay to that?"

The poor boy, aghast at Eben's statement, stood at first as if stunned;but recovering himself, he made a rush toward Eben, not blindly, butwith a fierce determination to clutch him by the throat and force him tounsay his terrible words. 

Eben sprang from the window at a bound. A struggle ensued--brief, violent. Donald might have been mastered, had not a strong man sprungupon them and with one blow knocked Eben Slade prostrate upon theboards. 

It was Sailor Jack, who had driven up unperceived and leaped from thebuggy just in time. 

Three or four men rushed from the bar-room, all calling out at once. 

"What's the matter here?"

"Any one killed?--What's the row?"

"Hi!--Separate them!" shouted the stout, red-faced landlord, coming outslowly behind the others and, as usual, failing to take in thesituation. 

Meantime, two of the men had seized Jack as Eben rose slowly; anothertried to catch hold of Donald. Their sympathy plainly was with Slade, who, seeing his opportunity, suddenly started toward the buggy with theevident intention of driving off in it. 

Jack, breaking from his astonished captors, was upon him in an instant, dragging him back, just as Slade had put one foot on the buggy-step, andas Donald was alertly seizing Lady's bridle. 

"Stand off, all of you!" cried Jack, still holding Eben by the collar. "We're out on the open seas at last, my man! and now look out foryourself!"

The thrashing was brief but effective. Jack wore a serene look ofsatisfaction when it was over; and Eben Slade slunk doggedly away, muttering:

"I'll be even with 'em yet. "

 * * * * *

Every hat was off, so to speak, when Jack and Donald, who had paid thelandlord handsomely, drove from Vanbogen's door. Lady was impatient tobe off; but Jack soon made her understand that the splendid time she hadmade in coming from Nestletown was no longer necessary, since Dood, tiedat the rear of the buggy, could not go faster than a walk. The removalof his shoe and prompt nursing had helped the pony so much that by thistime he was able to travel, though with difficulty. 

It was a strange drive: the spirited mare ahead, relieving her pent-upspeed by gently prancing up and down as she walked; Jack, grim andsatisfied, going over again in fancy every stroke that had fallen uponthe struggling Eben; Donald, pale and silent, with Slade's vicious wordsstill ringing in his ears; and the pony limping painfully behind. 

"He's taken up with his own thoughts, " said Jack to himself after awhile, noting Don's continued silence. "It ain't for me to disturb him, though them twins somehow seem as near as if they was my own children;but I _would_ like to know just what the little chap has heard from thatsea-sarpent. Somethin' or other's took fearful hold on him, sure'ssailin', poor lad! He ain't apt to be so onsociable. "

Following up these thoughts, as the mare jogged along, it was a greatsolace to good Sailor Jack, after their dismal drive, to see Don look upat the house as they turned into the lane, and wave his hat gallantly toDorothy. 

She, too, standing at her bedroom window with Lydia, was wonderfullyrelieved by Don's salutation. 

"Oh, it's all right!" she exclaimed, cheerily. "Even Dood isn't hurt asbadly as we feared, and how lovely it is to have Don back again, safeand sound! And, oh, Liddy, you should have seen Jack when I refused toget into the buggy, and made him drive on for his life, to help Don. Butthe trouble is over now. How lovely! Both of us will take supper withUncle, after all!"

Lydia, who had been doing all sorts of things to save Dorry from"taking her death o' cold, " stood admiringly by, while with rapidtouches, and many a laughing word, the happy girl arrayed herself to godown and meet "dear old Don and Uncle. "

Meanwhile Mr. Reed, in his study, looking up inquiringly to greetDonald's return, was surprised to see the boy's white face and flashingeyes. 

"Uncle George, " said Donald, the moment he entered the room, "tell mequick! Is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SUNSET. 

FOR an instant Mr. Reed was too astonished to speak. 

"Tell me, " implored Donald, "is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

"Hush! hush!" was the hurried response. "She'll hear you!"

"Is she or not?" insisted Donald, his eyes still fixed on his uncle'sface. It seemed to him that he caught the words, "She is. " He could notbe certain, but he stepped hopefully forward and laid his hand upon Mr. Reed's shoulder. 

"She is!" he exclaimed joyfully, bending over till their faces almostmet. "I knew it! Why didn't you tell me the fellow lied?"

"Who? What fellow?"

"Uncle! _Is_ she or not? I _must_ know. "

Mr. Reed glanced toward the door, to be sure that it was closed. 

"Uncle, Uncle! please answer my question. "

"Yes, my boy, I think--that is, I _trust_--she is. Oh, Donald, " criedMr. Reed, leaning upon the table and burying his face in his hands, "Ido not know, myself!"

"What don't you know, Uncle?" said a merry voice outside, accompanied bya light rapping at the door, "May I come in?"

"Certainly, " said Mr. Reed, rising. But Don was first. He caught Dorryin his arms as she entered. 

"Well!" she exclaimed, never suspecting the nature of the scene she hadinterrupted, "I thought I'd never get dressed. But where's the sense ofshutting yourselves in here, when it's so beautiful outside after theshower? It's the grandest sunset I ever saw. Do come and look at it!"

With these words, and taking an arm of each, she playfully led them fromthe room, out to the piazza, where they could see the glory of thewestern sky. 

"Isn't it wonderful?" she went on, as they stood looking over theglowing lake. "See, there's a splendid, big purple cloud with a goldenedge for you, Uncle, and those two little ones alongside are for Don andme. Oh!" she laughed, clapping her hands, "they're twins, Don, likeourselves; what a nice time they're having together! Now they areseparating--farther and farther apart--and yours is breaking up too, Uncle. Well, I _do_ declare, " she added, suddenly turning to look at hercompanions, "I never saw such a pair of doleful faces in all my life!"

"In _all_ your life?" echoed her uncle, trying to laugh carelessly, andwishing to divert her attention from Donald. 

"Yes, in all my life--all _our_ life I might say--and it isn't such avery short life either. I've learned ever so many things in it, I'd haveyou know, and not all of them from school-books, by any means. "

"Well, what have you learned, my girl?"

"Why, as if I could tell it all in a minute! It would take a year. I'lltell you _one_ thing, though, that I've found out for certain" (droppinga little courtesy): "I've the very dearest brother ever a girl had, andthe best uncle in the whole United States. "

With these words, Dorothy, raising herself on tiptoe, smilingly caughther uncle's face with both hands and kissed him. 

"Now, Don, " she added, "what say you to a race to the front gate beforesupper? Watch can try, too, and Uncle shall see which--Why, where isDon? When did he run off?"

"I'll find him, " said Uncle George, passing her quickly and reaching hisstudy before Dorry had recovered from her surprise. He had seen Donaldhasten into the house, unable to restrain the feelings called up byDorry's allusion to the clouds, and now he, too, could bear herunsuspecting playfulness no longer. 

Dorry stood a few seconds, half puzzled, half amused at their suddendesertion of her, when sounds of approaching wheels caught herattention. Turning, she saw Josie Manning coming toward the house, in anopen carriage driven by Mr. Michael McSwiver. 

"Oh, Dorothy!" Josie called out, before Michael had brought the finegray horse to a halt, "can you come and take supper with me? I havedriven over on purpose, and I've some beautiful new lichens at home toshow you. Six of us G-B-C girls went out moss-hunting before the shower. So sorry you were not with us!"

"Oh, I don't think I can, " hesitated Dorry. "Donald and I have been awayall day. Can't you stay here instead?"

"_Im_-possible, " was Josie's emphatic reply. "Mother will be waiting forme--Oh, what a noble fellow! So this is Watch? Ed Tyler told me abouthim. "

Here Josie, reaching out her arm, leaned forward to pat the shaggy headof a beautiful Newfoundland, that, with his paws on the edge of therockaway, was trying to express his approbation of Josie as a friend ofthe family. 

"Yes, this is our new dog. Isn't he handsome? Such a swimmer, too! Youought to see him leap into the lake to bring back sticks. Here, Watch!"

But Watch would not leave the visitor. "Good fellow, I admire yourtaste, " said Josie, laughingly, still stroking his large, silky head. "But I must be off. I do wish you'd come with me, Dot. Go and ask youruncle, " she coaxed; "Michael will bring you home early. "

Here Mr. McSwiver, without turning his face, touched the rim of his hatgravely. 

"Well, I'll see, " said Dorothy, as she ran into the house. To hersurprise, Mr. Reed gave a willing consent. 

"Shall I really go?" she asked, hardly satisfied. "Where is Donald?"

"He is readying himself for supper, I think, Miss, " said Kassy, thehousemaid, who happened to pass at that moment. "I saw him going intohis room. "

"But you look tired, Uncle, dear. Suppose I don't go, this time. "

"Tired? not a bit. Never better, Dot. There, get your hat, my girl, anddon't keep Josie waiting any longer. "

"Well, good-by, then. Tell Don, please, I've gone to Josie's--Oh, andJosie and I would like to have him come over after tea. He needn'tthough, if he feels very tired, for Josie says Michael can bring mehome. "

"Very well, my dear. If Donald is not there by half-past nine o'clock, do not expect him. Wait; I'll escort you to the carriage. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

UNCLE GEORGE TELLS DONALD. 

"COME into the study, Donald, " said Uncle George, after their lonelysupper, --lonely even to Lydia, who presided at the tea-tray wonderinghow Mr. G. Could have been so thoughtless as to let that child go out. "We can have no better opportunity than this for our talk. But, firsttell me--Who was the 'fellow' you mentioned? Where was he? Did Dorry seehim?"

Donald, assuring his uncle that Dorry had not recognized the man, toldall the particulars of the interview at Vanbogen's, and of Jack's timelyappearance and Slade's beating. 

Disturbed, even angry, as Mr. Reed was at hearing this unwelcome news, he could not resist Donald's persistent, resolute desire that thepresent hour should be given to the main question concerning Dorry. 

 * * * * *

Twilight slowly faded, and the room grew darker as they sat there, until at last they scarcely could see each other's faces. Then theymoved nearer to the open window, conversing in a low tone, as star afterstar came softly into view. 

Donald's large, wistful eyes sometimes turned to look toward the frontgate, through which Dorry had passed, though he gave close attention toevery word Mr. Reed uttered. 

It was a strange story; but all its details need not be repeated here. Suffice it to say, at last Donald learned his uncle's secret, andunderstood the many unaccountable moods that so often had perplexedDorry and himself. 

What wonder that Mr. George had been troubled, and had sometimes shownsigns of irritation! For nearly fifteen years he had suffered frompeculiar suspense and annoyance, because, while he believed Dorothy tobe his own niece, he could not ascertain the fact to his completesatisfaction. To make matters worse, the young girl unconsciouslyincreased his perplexity by sometimes evincing traits which well mightbe inherited from his brother Wolcott, and oftener in numberless littleways so reminding him of his adopted sister Kate in her early girlhood, that his doubts would gain new power to torment him. 

All he had been able to find out definitely was that, in the autumn of1859, in accordance with his instructions, Mrs. Wolcott Reed, hisbrother's widow, with her twin babies, a boy and girl of six weeks, andtheir nurse, had sailed from Europe, in company with Kate and herhusband, Henry Robertson, who had with them their own little daughterDelia, a baby barely a week older than the twins. 

When about seven days out, the steamer had been caught in a fog, and, going too near the treacherous coast of Newfoundland, had in the nightsuddenly encountered a sunken rock. The violence of the shock arousedevery one on board. There was a rush for the pumps, but they were of nouse; the vessel already had begun to sink. Then followed a terriblescene. Men and women rushed wildly about, vainly calling for thosebelonging to them. Parents and their children were separated in thedarkness--all, passengers and crew alike, too panic-stricken to act inconcert. In the distracting terror of the occasion, there was greatdifficulty in lowering the steamer's boats--now their only possible hopeof rescue. These were no sooner let down than they became dangerouslyoverloaded. The first one, indeed, was so crowded that it swampedinstantly. The other boats, threatened with the same fate, were tossedfar apart as fast as they were filled, and in the darkness and tumulttheir crews were able to pick up but a few of the poor creatures whowere struggling with the waves. 

Two of the three babies, a boy and a girl, had been rescued, as wealready know, by the efforts of one of the crew, Sailor Jack, known tohis comrades as Jack Burton. He had just succeeded in getting into oneof the boats, when he heard through the tumult a woman's wild cry fromthe deck:

"Save these helpless little ones! Look out! I must throw them!"

"Ay, ay! Let 'em come!" shouted Jack in response; and the next momentthe babies, looking like little black bundles, flew over the ship'sside, one after the other, and were safely caught in Jack's dexterousarms. Just in time, too, for the men behind him at once bent to theoars, in the fear that the boat, so dangerously near the sinking ship, was in danger of being engulfed by it. 

Against Jack's protesting shout of "There's another coming!--a woman!"the boat shot away on the crest of a wave. 

Hearing a scream above the surrounding din, Jack hastily flung off hiscoat, thrust the babies into the arms of his comrades, and shouting, "Keep them safe for me: I'm Jack Burton. It may be the mother! Look outfor me, mates!" he plunged into the sea. 

Jack made gallant efforts for a time, but returning alone, worn out withhis fruitless exertions, he was taken into the boat. If, after that, inthe severe cold, he remembered his jacket, it was only to take realcomfort in knowing that the "little kids" were wrapped in it safe andsound. In the darkness and confusion he had not been able to see who hadthrown the babies to him, but the noble-hearted sailor resolved to befaithful to his trust, and if he ever touched land again never to losesight of them until he could leave them safe with some of their ownkindred. 

All night, in the bitter cold, the boat that carried the two babies hadtossed with the waves, the men using their oars as well as they could, working away from the dangerous rocks out to the open sea, and hopingthat daylight might reveal some passing vessel. Every one excepting thebabies, suffered keenly; these, wrapped from head to feet in thesailor's jacket, and tucked in between the shivering women, sleptsoundly, while their preserver, scorning even in his drenched conditionto feel the need of his warm garment, did his best at the oars. 

With the first light of dawn a speck appeared on the horizon. It slowlygrew larger, sometimes seeming to recede, and often disappearingutterly, until at last the straining eyes that watched it discerned itsoutline. It was a ship under full sail! Everything now depended uponbeing able to attract attention. One of the women, wrapped in a largewhite woollen mantle, snatched it off; it would serve as a signal ofdistress. The men hoisted the garment upon an oar, and, heavy and wetthough it was, waved it wildly in the air. 

"She's seen us!" cried Sailor Jack at last. "Hooray! She's headin'straight for us!"

And so she was. 

Before sunset of that day, the honest sailor, with two babies, and allhis companions in the boat were comfortably quartered on what proved tobe the good ship "Cumberland, " a sailing vessel bound for the port ofNew York. 

Once safely on board, Sailor Jack had time to reflect on his somewhatnovel position--a jolly tar, as he expressed it, with two helplesslittle kids to take ashore as salvage. That the babies did not nowbelong to him never entered his mind; they were his twins, to be caredfor and to keep, he insisted, till the "Cumberland" should touch shore;and his to keep and care for ever after, unless somebody with a betterright and proof positive should meet him in New York and claim them, orelse that some of their relatives should be saved in one of the otherboats. 

So certain was he of his rights, that when the captain's wife, whohappened to be on board, offered to care for the little creatures, he, concealing his helplessness as a nurse, accepted her kindness with alordly air and as though it were really a favor on his part. "Them twinsis Quality, " he would say, "and I can't have 'em meddled with till Ifind the grand folks they belong to. Wash their leetle orphan faces, youmay; feed 'em, you may; and keep 'em warm, you may; but their leetlejackets, night gownds, and petticuts, an' caps has got to stay just asthey are, to identify 'em. And this ere gimcrack on the leetlemiss--gold it is, you may well say" (touching the chain on the baby'sneck admiringly)--"this ere gimcrack likely's got a legal consequence toits folks, which I couldn't and wouldn't undertake to calc'late. "

Meantime the sailors would stand around, looking reverently at thebabies, until, with Jack's gracious permission, the kind-hearted womanwould tenderly soothe the little ones to sleep. 

Among the survivors of the wreck, none could give much informationconcerning the babies. Only two were women, and one of these lay ill ina rough bunk through the remainder of the voyage, raving in her fever ofthe brother who bent anxiously over her. (In her delirium, she imaginedthat he had been drowned on that terrible night. ) Sailor Jack held thetwins before her, but she took no notice of them. Her brother knewnothing about them or of any of the passengers. He had been a fireman onthe wrecked vessel, and scarcely had been on deck from the hour ofstarting until the moment of the wreck. The other rescued womanfrequently had seen a tall nurse with two very young infants on her lap, and a pale mother dressed in black standing near them; and sheremembered hearing some one say that there was another lady with a youngbaby on board, and that the two mothers were sisters, or relatives ofsome kind, and that the one with twins had recently become a widow. Thatwas all. Beyond vaguely wondering how any one could think of taking suchmites of humanity across the ocean, she had given no more thought tothem. Of the men rescued, not one had known of the existence of thethree wee passengers, the only babies on board, as the little creaturesseldom had been taken on deck. 

The two mothers, as Jack learned from one of the women, had been made soill by the voyage that they rarely had left their state-rooms. Mr. Robertson, Kate's husband, was known by sight to all as a tall, handsomeman, though very restless and anxious-looking; but, being much occupiedwith the care of his wife and child, he had spoken to very few personson board the vessel. 

This was all Jack could find out, though he never wearied of makinginquiries among the survivors. He was shrewd enough, however, to askthem to write their names and addresses for him to keep, so that, if thetwins' people (as he called them) ever should be found, they could inturn communicate with the survivors. The family naturally would want toinquire about "the other baby and its poor father, and the two mothers, one of which was a widow in mournin'--poor soul! and the nurse-girl, alldrowned and gone. "

Long weeks afterward, one other boat was heard from--the only other onethat was ever found. Its freight of human beings, only seven in all, hadpassed through great privation and danger, but they finally had beentaken aboard a steamer going east. The list of persons saved in thisboat had been in due time received by Mr. Reed, who, after carefulinvestigation, at last ascertained to a certainty that they all wereadults, and that neither Mr. And Mrs. Robertson, nor Wolcott Reed'swidow, were of the number. He communicated in person or by letter withall of them excepting one; and that one was a woman, who was describedas a tall, dark-complexioned girl, a genteel servant, who, as three ofthe men declared, had been occasionally seen, pacing up and down thedeck of the ill-fated vessel during the early part of the voyage, carrying a "very small baby" in her arms. She had given her name asEllen Lee; had accepted assistance from the ship's company, and finallyshe had been traced by Mr. Reed's clerk, Henry Wakeley, to an obscureboarding-house in Liverpool. Going there to see her, Mr. Wakeley hadbeen told that she was "out;" and calling there again, late on the sameday, he learned that she had paid her bill and left the house four hoursbefore. 

After that, all efforts to find her, both on the part of the clerk andof Mr. Reed, had been unavailing; though to this day, as the latterassured Donald, detectives in Liverpool and London had her name anddescription, as belonging to a person "to be found. "

"But do they know your address?" asked Donald. 

"Oh, yes, I shall be notified at once if any news is heard of her; butafter all these years there is hardly a possibility of that. Ellen Leesare plentiful enough; it is not an uncommon name, I find; but thatparticular Ellen Lee seems to have vanished from the earth. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

DELIA, OR DOROTHY?

AS Donald listened to his uncle by the study-window, on that starlitevening, many things that he had heard from Sailor Jack rose in hismemory and blended with Mr. Reed's words. Part of the strange story wasalready familiar to him. He needed only a hint of the shipwreck to havethe scene vividly before him. He and Dorry had often heard of it, and oftheir first coming to Nestletown. They knew that Uncle George had easilyestablished his claim to the babies, as these and the one that was lostwere the only infants among the passengers, and that he had brought themand Sailor Jack home with him from New York; that Jack, through hisdevotion to the children, had been induced to give up the sea and remainwith Mr. Reed ever since; and that they, the twins, had grown uptogether the happiest brother and sister in that part of the country, until "the long, lank man" had come to mar their happiness, and Unclehad been mysteriously bothered, and had seemed sometimes to beunreasonably annoyed at Dorothy's innocent peculiarities of manner andtemperament. But now Donald learned of the doubts that from the firsthad perplexed Mr. Reed; of the repeated efforts that he had made toascertain which one of the three babies had been lost; how he had beenbaffled again and again, until at last he had given himself up to a dullhope that the little girl who had become so dear was really hisbrother's child, and joint heir with Donald to his and his brother'sestates; and how Eben Slade actually had come to claim her and take heraway, threatening to blight the poor child by proving that she was _his_niece, Delia Robertson, and not Dorothy Reed at all. 

Poor Donald! Dorry had been so surely his sister that until now he hadtaken his joy in her as a matter of course, --as a part of his existence, bright and necessary as light and air, and never questioned. She wasDorry, he even now felt confident, not Delia--Delia, the poor littlecousin who was lost; certainly not. She was Dorry and he was Donald. Ifshe was not Dorry, then who was he? Who was Uncle George? Who were allthe persons they knew, and what did everything in life mean?

No, he would not give her up--he could not. Something within himresented the idea, then scouted it, and finally set him up standingbefore his uncle, so straight, so proud in his bearing, so joyfullyscornful of anything that threatened to take his sister away from him, that Mr. George rose also and waited for him to speak, as thoughDonald's one word must settle the question for ever. 

"Well, my boy?"

"Uncle, I am absolutely sure of it. Our Dorry is Dorothy Reed--here withus alive and well, and I mean to prove it!"

"God grant it, Donald!"

"Well, Uncle, I must go now to bring my sister home. Of course, I shallnot tell her a word of what has passed between us this evening. Thatscoundrel! to think of his intending to tell her that she was hissister's child! Poor Dot! think of the shock to her. Just suppose he hadconvinced her, made her think that it was true, that it was her duty togo with him, care for him, and all that--Why, Uncle, with her spirit andhigh notions of right, even you and I couldn't have stopped her; she'dhave gone with him, if it killed her!"

"Donald!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, fiercely, "you're talking nonsense!"

"So I am--sheer nonsense! The man hasn't an argument in favor of hisclaim. But, Uncle, there is a great deal yet to be looked up. After Dothas bidden us good-night and is fast asleep, may I not come down here tothe study again? Then you can show me the things you were speakingof--the pictures, the letters, the chain, the little clothes, the locksof hair, and everything--especially that list, you know. We'll gocarefully over every point. There _must_ be proof somewhere. "

Donald was so radiant with a glad confidence that for an instant hisuncle looked upon him as one inspired. Then sober thoughts returned;objections and arguments crowded into Mr. Reed's mind, but he had noopportunity to utter them. Donald clasped his uncle's hand warmly andwas off, bounding down the moon-flecked carriage-way, the new dogleaping before him. Both apparently were intent only on enjoying a briskwalk toward the village, and on bringing Dorry home. 

Dorry was very tired. Leaning upon Donald's arm as they walkedhomeward--for they had declined Mr. McSwiver's services--she had butlittle to say, and that little was all about the strange adventure atVanbogen's. 

"Who in the world was that man, Don?" and then without waiting for areply, she continued: "Do you know, after I started for home, I reallysuspected that he was that horrid person--the long, lank one, youknow--come back again. I'm glad it wasn't; but he may turn up yet, justas he did before. Why doesn't he stay with his own people, and notwander about like a lunatic? They ought to take care of him, anyway. Ugh! I can't bear to think of that dreadful man. It makes me shiver!"

"Then why _do_ you think of him?" suggested Donald, with forcedcheerfulness. "Let us talk of something else. "

"Very well. Let's talk--let's talk of--of--Oh, Don, I'm so tired andsleepy! Suppose we don't talk at all!"

"All right, " he assented. And so in cordial silence they stepped lightlyalong in the listening night, to the great surprise of Watch, who atfirst whined and capered by way of starting a conversation, and finallycontented himself with exploring every shadowed recess along the moonlitroad, running through every opening that offered, waking sleeping dogsin their kennels, and in fact taking upon himself an astonishing amountof business for a new-comer into the neighborhood, who naturally wouldbe excused from assuming entire charge of things. 

Mr. Reed met Don and Dorry on the piazza. Greetings and good-nightswere soon over; and before long, Dorry, in her sweet, sound sleep, forgot alike the pleasures and adventures of the day. 

Meantime, Mr. Reed and Donald were busily engaged in examining oldfamily ambrotypes, papers, and various articles that, carefully hiddenin the uncle's secretary, had been saved all these years in the hopethat they might furnish a clew to Dorry's parentage, or perhaps provethat she was, as Mr. Reed trusted, the daughter of his brother Wolcott. To Donald each article was full of interest and hopeful possibilities;but his uncle looked at them wearily and sadly, because the very sightof them recalled a throng of disappointments and baffled surmises. Therewere the little caps and baby-garments, yellow, rumpled, andweather-stained, just as they had been taken off and carefully labelledon that day nearly fifteen years ago. Donald noticed that one parcel ofthese articles was marked, "Belonging to the boy, Donald, " and the othersimply "Belonging to the girl. " There were the photographs of the twobabies, which had been taken a week after their landing, carefullylabelled in the same way, giving the boy's name but leaving a blank inplace of the girl's. Poor, pinched, expressionless-looking littlecreatures, both of them were; for, as Uncle George explained to thecrestfallen Donald, the babies were really ill at first, from exposureand unsuitable feeding. Then there were the two tiny papers containingeach a lock of hair, and these also were marked, one, "The boy, Donald, "and the other simply "The girl. " Donald's had only a few pale littlebrown hairs, but "the girl's" paper disclosed a soft, yellow littlecurl. 

"She had more than you had, " remarked Uncle George, as he carefullyclosed the paper again; "you'll see that, also, by the accuratedescription of the two children that I wrote at the time. Here it is. "

Donald glanced over the paper, as if intending to read it later, andthen took up the chain with a square clasp, the same that Uncle Georgeheld in his hand when we saw him in the study on the day of theshooting-match. Three delicate strands of gold chain came together atthe clasp, which was still closed. This clasp was prettily embossed onits upper surface, while its under side was smooth. 

"Was this on Dor--on _her_ neck or on mine, Uncle?" he asked. 

"On the little girl's, " said Mr. Reed. "In fact, she wore it until shewas a year old, and then her dear little throat grew to be so chubby, Lydia fancied that the chain was too tight. The catch of the claspseemed to have rusted inside, and it would not open. So, rather thanbreak it, we severed the three chains here across the middle. I'vesince--"

Donald, who was holding the clasp toward the light, cut short hisuncle's remark with the joyful exclamation:

"Why, see here! The under side has letters on it! D. R. --Dorothy Reed. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Reed, impatiently, "but D stands for Delia too. "

"But the R, " insisted Donald; "D. R. , Dorothy Reed--it's plain as day. Oh!" he added quickly, in a changed tone, "that doesn't help us, afterall; for R would stand for Robertson as well as for Reed. But then, insome way or other such a chain as this ought to help us. It's by nomeans a common chain. I never saw one like it before. "

"Nor I, " said Mr. Reed. 

By this time, Donald had taken up "the girl's" little garments again. Comparing them with "Donald's" as well as he could, considering hisuncle's extreme care that the two sets should not get mixed, he said, with a boy's helplessness in such matters: "They're about alike. I donot see any difference between them, except in length. Ho-ho! theselittle flannel sacques are of a different color; mine is blue and hersis pink. "

"I know that, " his uncle returned, despondingly. "For a long time Ihoped that this difference would lead to some discovery, but nothingcame of it. Take care! don't lay it down; give it to me" (holding outhis hand for the pink sacque, and very carefully folding it up with "thegirl's" things). 

"How strange! And you wrote immediately, you say, and sent somebodyright over to Europe to find out everything?"

"Not only sent my confidential clerk, Henry Wakeley, over at once, "replied Mr. Reed, "but, when he returned without being able to give anysatisfaction, I went myself. I was over there two months--as long as Icould just then be away from my affairs and from you two babies. Liddywas faithfulness itself and needed no oversight, even had a roughbachelor like me been capable of giving it; but I felt better to be athome, where I could see how you were getting along. As Liddy and Jackand everybody else always spoke of you as 'the twins, ' my hope that youwere indeed brother and sister became a sort of habit that often servedto beguile me into actual belief. "

"Humph! well it might, " said Donald, rather indignantly. "Of coursewe're brother and sister. "

"Certainly, " assented Mr. Reed, with pathetic heartiness, "no doubt ofit; and yet I would give, I cannot say how much, to be absolutelycertain. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS. 

FOR a time, an outsider looking on would have seen no great change atLakewood, as the Reed homestead was called. There were the same studies, the same sports, the same every-day life with its in-comings, itsout-goings, its breakfasts, dinners, and pleasant home-scenes; therewere drives, out-door games, and sails and rambles and visits. UncleGeorge always was heartily willing to take part, when he could leave hisbooks and papers; and Lydia, busy with household matters, often foundopportunities to teach her young lady some of the mysteries of thekitchen. 

"It's high time, Miss Dorry, that you learned these things, " Lydiawould say, "even if you _are_ to be a grand lady, for you'll be themistress of this house in time; and if anything should happen to _me_, Idon't know where things would go to. Besides, as your uncle truly says, every lady should understand housekeeping. So, Miss Dorry dear, if youplease to do so, we'll bake bread and cake on Saturday, and I'll showyou at to-morrow's ironin' how we get Mr. Reed's shirt-bosoms so lovelyand smooth; and, if you please, you can iron one for him, all with yourown pretty hands, Miss. "

As a consequence of such remarks, Mr. Reed sometimes found himselfeating, with immense relish, cake that had only "just a least littleheavy streak in the middle, " or wearing linen that, if any one but Dorryhad ironed it, would have been cast aside as not fit to put on. 

But what matter! She was sure to improve under Lydia's instruction. Besides, her voice was sweet and merry as ever, her step as light andher heart even more glad; for Uncle was always his dear, good self now, and had no mysterious moods and startling surprises of manner for hislittle girl. In fact, he was wonderfully relieved by having shared hissecret with Donald. The boy's stout-hearted, manly way of seeing thebright side of things and scouting all possible suspicions that Dorrywas not Dorry, gave Mr. Reed strength and a restfulness that he had notknown for years. Unconscious of the shadow still hanging over the home, Dorry, prettier, brighter, and sweeter every day, was the delight of thehousehold; her very faults to their partial eyes added to her charm;for, according to Lydia, "they were uncommon innocent and funny, MissDorry's ways were. " In fact, the young lady, who had a strong will ofher own, would have been spoiled to a certainty but for her scorn ofaffectation, her love of truth, and genuine faithfulness to whatever shebelieved to be right. 

Donald, on his part, was too boyish to be utterly cast down by thesecret that stood between him and Dorry; but his mind dwelt upon itdespite his efforts to dismiss every useless doubt. 

Fortunately, Eben Slade had not again made his appearance in theneighborhood. He had left Vanbogen's immediately after Jack had paid hisrough compliments to him, and he had not been seen there since. But atany moment he might reappear at Lakewood and carry out his threat ofobtaining an interview with Dorry. This Donald dreaded of all things, and he resolved that it should not come to pass. How to prevent it wasthe question. He and his uncle had agreed that she must be spared notonly all knowledge of the secret, but all anxiety or suspicionconcerning her history; and they and Jack kept a constant lookout forthe disagreeable intruder. 

Day by day, when alone, Donald pondered over the case, resolved uponestablishing his sister's identity, recalling again and again all thathis uncle had told him, and secretly devising plans that grew more andmore settled in his mind as time went on. Jack, who had been in Mr. Reed's confidence from the first, was now taken fully into Donald's. Hewas proud of the boy's fervor, but had little hope. Fourteen, nearlyfifteen, years was a long time, and if Ellen Lee had hidden herselfsuccessfully in 1859 and since, why could she not do so still? Donaldhad his own opinion. Evidently she had some reason for hiding, orfancied she had; but she must be found, and if so, why should not he, Donald Reed, find her? Yes, there was no other way. Donald was studyinglogic at the time, and had committed pages of it to memory in the mostdutiful manner. To be sure, while these vital plans were forming in hisbrain, he did not happen to recall any page of the logic that exactlyfitted the case, but in some way he flattered himself that he had becomerather expert in the art of thinking and of balancing ideas. 

"A fellow can't do more than use his wits, after all, " he said tohimself, "and all this studying and getting ready to enter ColumbiaCollege next year, as Uncle says I may, will do well enough _afterward_;but at present we've something else to attend to. "

And, to make a long story not too long and tedious, the end of it wasthat one bright spring day, months after that memorable afternoon atVanbogen's, Donald, having had many earnest interviews meanwhile, obtained his uncle's unwilling consent that he should sail alone forEngland in the next steamer. 

 * * * * *

Poor Dorry--glad if Don was glad, but totally ignorant of hiserrand--was too amazed at the bare announcement of the voyage to take inthe idea at all. 

Lydia, horrified, was morally sure that the boy never would come backalive. 

Sailor Jack, on his sea-legs in an instant, gave his unqualifiedapprobation of the scheme. 

Uncle George, unconvinced but yielding, answered Donald's questions;agreed that Dorry should be told simply that his uncle was sending himon important business; allowed him to make copies of letters, lists, anddocuments, even trusted some of the long-guarded and precious relics tohis keeping; furnished advice and money, and, in fact, helped him all hecould; then resolved the boy should not go after all; and finally, holding Dorry's cold hand as they stood a few days later on the crowdedcity wharf, bade him good-by and God bless him!

[Illustration: OFF FOR EUROPE. ]

CHAPTER XXIX. 

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER. 

"IT was all so sudden, " explained Dorothy to Charity Danby, a few weeksafterward, in talking over her brother's departure, "that I feel as if Iwere dreaming and that Don must soon come and wake me up. "

"Strange that he should 'a' been allowed to go all the way to Europe, alone so--and he barely fifteen yet, " remarked Mrs. Danby, who wasironing Jamie's Sunday frock at the time. 

"Donald is nearly sixteen, " said Dorry with dignity, "and he went onimportant business for Uncle. Didn't Ben go West when he was muchyounger than that?"

"Oh, yes, my dear, but then Ben is--different, you know. He's looked outfor himself 'most ever since he was a baby. Now, Ellen Eliza, " sheexclaimed, suddenly changing her tone as the tender-hearted one came insight, "what in the world are you goin' to do with that lame rabbit youput in the box there?"

"Cure it, Ma. That's what I'm going to do with it. "

"Well, if anybody can, you can, I s'pose. But it's layin' so still I'mafraid you'll lose it. "

"Charity says only hens _lay_, Ma, " replied Ellen Eliza, suggestively, at the same time hurrying to the box in great solicitude. 

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby, laughing lightly. "Them children"(here the proud mother turned to Dorothy), "with their lessons and whatnot, are gettin' to be too much for me. I have to speak as ac'rate as aschool-teacher to satisfy 'em. Only the other day, little Fandy took meby surprise. He's the brightest of the lot, you know. Well, I wanted tostart the fire, and the matches had given clean out. 'Here's a prettyfix!' says I. 'A fire to light, and no matches!' 'I can help you, Ma, 'says Fandy. 'Can you dear?' says I, pleased enough; 'have _you_ got somematches?' 'No, Ma, ' says the child. 'Well, how can you help me then?' Isays; 'there isn't a spark or a live coal anywhere in the house. I can'tlight the fire without matches, that's certain. ' 'Yes, you can light itwithout _matches_, Ma, ' says he, in his 'cute, pos'tive way; 'yes, youcan. ' 'How _can_ I?' says I, more to draw him out than with any hope o'gettin' help from him. 'Why, ' says he, bowin' to me as grand as thebest, and takin' somethin' out o' his little wescut pocket, 'you can use_a match_, Ma, and here's one; it's the only one I've got!' Now wasn'tthat a good catch, Dorothy, for a child o' his tender years?"

"Yes, indeed it was, " assented Dorothy, heartily. 

"Ma, " began Ellen Eliza, who had been listening with much interest, "did--"

"Why, Ellen Eliza! Are you standing there yet? Now don't lay your wetapron down on your sister's poetry you forlorn, distres-sèd lookin'child! She's been writin' like wild this mornin', Mandy has, but Ihaven't had time enough to read it. It's a cryin' shame, Dorothy, herpoetry isn't all printed in a book by this time. It would sell like hotcakes, I do believe, --and sell quicker, too, if folks knew she wasn'tgoing to have much more time for writin'. She's going to be a teacher, Mandy is. Young Mr. Ricketts got her a situation in a 'cademy down toTrenton, where she's to study and teach and make herself useful till sheper_fects_ herself. 'Tisn't every girl gets a chance to be per_fect_edso easy, either. Oh, Charity--there's so much on my mind!--I forgot totell you that Ben found your 'rithmetic in the grass, 'way down past themelon-patch where baby Jamie must have left it. There, put up yoursewing, Charity, and you and Dorothy take a run; you look jaded-like. Why, mercy on us!" continued the good woman, looking up at this momentand gently waving her scorching-hot iron in the air to cool it off alittle, "you look flushed, Dorothy. You haven't gone and got malaria, have you?"

"Oh, no, " said Dorry, laughing in spite of her sadness. "It is notmalaria that troubles me: it's living for three whole weeks withoutseeing Donald. "

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby. "I don't wonder if it is, you poorchild--only one brother so, and him a twin. " Dorry laughed pleasantlyagain, and then, with a cheerful "good-by, " walked slowly homeward. 

The next morning, when she awoke, she felt so weary and sleepy that shesent a good-morning message to her uncle and told Lydia she would notget up till after breakfast-time. "Be sure, " she said to Liddy, "to tellUncle that I am not really ill, --only lazy and sleepy, --and by and byyou may let Kassy bring a cup of very weak coffee. "

Lydia, secretly distressed but outwardly cheerful, begged her dear younglady to take a nice long nap. Then lighting the fire, --for the morningwas raw and chilly though it was May, --she bustled about the room tillDorry was very wide-awake indeed. Next, Uncle George came up to bid hergood-morning, and make special inquiries, and when he went downreassured, Kassy came in with her breakfast. By this time Dorothy hadgiven up all thought of sleep for the present. 

"Why, Kassy!" she exclaimed in plaintive surprise, "you've broughtenough to feed a regiment. I can't eat all that bread, if I _am_ ill--"

"Oh, but I'm to make toast for you, here in your room, Miss, " explainedKassy, who evidently had something on her mind. "Lydia, --I mean Mr. Reed, said so. "

"How nice!" exclaimed Dorry, listlessly. 

Kassy took her place by the open fire, and after hesitating a momentbegan to toast the bread, while Dorry lay looking at her, feelingneither ill nor well, and half inclined to cry from sheer loneliness. This was to be the twenty-third day without Donald. 

"I wonder what that important business can be, " she thought; "but, mostlikely, Uncle will tell me all about it before long. "

[Illustration: KASSY EVIDENTLY HAD SOMETHING ON HER MIND. ]

Meanwhile, Kassy continued to toast bread. A formidable pile ofbrowned slices already lay on the plate, and she was preparing, inabsent-minded fashion, to attack another slice, when suddenly the longtoasting-fork hung aimlessly from one hand, while the other beganfumbling in her pocket. Finally, in a cautious, troubled way, she handedthe young lady a letter. 

"I--I should have given it to you before, Miss, " she faltered, "but keptit because I thought--that--perhaps--I--"

But Dorry already had torn open the envelope, and was reading thecontents. 

Kassy, watching her, was frightened at seeing the poor girl's face flushpainfully, then turn deadly pale. 

"Not bad news, is it, Miss? Oh, Miss Dorry, maybe I've done wrong inhanding it to you; but a gentleman gave me half a dollar, day beforeyesterday, Miss, to put it secretly into your hands, and he said it wassomething you'd rejoice to know about. "

Dorry, now sitting up on the bed, hardly heard her. With tremblinghands, she held the opened letter, and motioned toward the door. 

"Go, call Mr. Reed! No, no--stay here--Oh, what _shall_ I do? What oughtI to do?" she thought to herself, and then added aloud, with decision:"Yes, go ask Mr. Reed to please come up. You need not return. "

Hastily springing to the floor, Dorry thrust her feet into a pair ofslippers, put on a long white woollen wrapper that made her look like agrown woman, and stood with the letter in her hand as her uncle entered. 

She remained motionless as a statue while he hastily read it, her whiteface in strange contrast to the angry hue that overspread Mr. Reed'scountenance. 

"Horrible!" he exclaimed, as he reached the last word. "Where did thisletter come from Dorothy? How did you get it?"

"Kassy brought it. A man gave her half a dollar--she thought it hadgood news in it. Oh, Uncle!" (seeing the wrath in Mr. Reed's face), "sheought not to have taken it, of course, but she doesn't know anybetter--and I didn't notice either, when I opened it, that it had nopost-mark. "

"Did you read it all?"

Dorothy nodded. 

"Well, I must go. I'll attend to this letter. The scoundrel! You are notgoing to faint, my child?" putting his arm quickly around her. 

"Oh, no, Uncle, " she said, looking up at him with an effort. "But whatdoes it mean? Who is this man?"

"I'll tell you later, Dorry. I must go now--"

"Uncle, you are so angry! Wait one moment. Let me go with you. "

Her frightened look brought Mr. Reed to his senses. In a calmer voice hebegged her to give herself no uneasiness, but to lie down again andrest. He would send Lydia up, for he must lose no time in attending tothat letter. He was just going to open the door, when Josie Manning'spleasant voice was heard at the foot of the stair: "Is any one at home?May I come up?"

"Oh, no, " shuddered Dorothy. 

"Yes, yes, " urged Mr. Reed. "Let your friend see you, my girl. Hercheerfulness will help you to forget this rascally, cruel letter. There, good-by for the present, " and, kissing her, Mr. Reed left the room. 

Josie's bright face soon appeared at the door. 

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "Are you rehearsing for a charade, Miss Reed? And who are you in your long white train--Lady Angelica, orDonna Isabella, or who?"

"I don't know who I am!" sobbed poor Dorothy, throwing herself upon thebed and hiding her face in the pillows. 

"Why, what _is_ the matter? Are you ill? Have you heard bad news? Oh, Iforget, " continued Josie, as Dorry made no reply; "what a goose I mustbe! Of course you are miserable without Don, you darling! But I've cometo bring good news, my lady--to me, at least--so cheer up. Do you knowsomething? Mamma and Papa are going to start for San Francisco onWednesday. They gave me my choice--to go with them or to stay with you, and I decided to stay. So they and your uncle settled it late last nightthat I am to be here with you till they come back--two whole months, Dot! Isn't that nice?"

"Ever so nice!" said Dorry, without lifting her head. "I am really glad, Jo; but my head aches, and I feel dreadfully this morning. "

"Have you had any breakfast?" asked the practical Josie, much puzzled. 

"N-no, " sobbed Dorry. 

"Well, no wonder you feel badly. Look at this cold coffee, and thatmountain of toast, and not a thing touched. I declare, if I don't goright down and tell Liddy. We'll get you up a good hot breakfast, andyou can doze quietly till we come. "

Dorry felt a gentle arm round her for an instant, and a warm cheekpressed to hers, and then she was alone--alone with her thoughts of thatdreadful letter. 

It was from Eben Slade, and it contained all that he had told Donaldon that day at Vanbogen's, and a great deal more. He had kept quiet longenough, he added, and now he wished her to understand that, as heruncle, he had some claim upon her; that her real name was DeliaRobertson; she was no more Dorothy Reed than he was; and that she mustnot tell a living soul a word about this letter, or it would maketrouble. If she had any spirit or any sense of justice, he urged, shewould manage for him to see her some day when Mr. Reed was out. Ofcourse--(the letter went on to say)--Mr. Reed would object if he knew, for it was to his interest to claim her; but truth was truth, and GeorgeReed was no relation to her whatever. The person she had been taught tocall Aunt Kate was really her mother, and it was her mother's ownbrother, Eben, who was writing this letter. All he asked for was aninterview. He had a great deal to say to her, and Mr. Reed was a tyrantwho would keep her a prisoner if he could, so that her own Uncle Ebencould not even see her. He had been unfortunate and lost all his money. If he was rich he would see that he and his dear niece Delia had theirrights, in spite of the tyrant who held her in bondage. She _must_manage to see him, --(so ran the letter)--and she could put a letter forhim, after dark that night, under the large stone by the walnut-treebehind the summer-house. He would come and see her at any time shementioned. No girl of spirit would be held, for a single day, in suchbondage, especially when sacred duties called her elsewhere. The writerconcluded by calling her again his dear Delia, and signing himself heraffectionate uncle, Eben Slade. 

Early on that same evening, Sailor Jack, reaching the summer-house by acircuitous route, stealthily laid a dainty-looking note under the largestone by the walnut tree. He held his breath as he lingered a momentamong the shadows. Ah, if he only could have his own way, what a chancethis would be to leave that paltry thrashing at Vanbogen's far in thebackground! How he longed to get his hands on Eben Slade once more! But, no; he had received his instructions, and must obey. Besides, Slade wastoo wary a man to be caught this time. So poor Jack was forced to goback to the stables, and there bustle noisily about as though nothingunusual were expected. 

But it was some satisfaction to follow Mr. Reed's further orders to keepa sharp lookout all that night, about the premises. Meantime Eben Slade, who like most men of his sort was a coward at heart, had hastilywithdrawn to a safe distance, after finding what he sought under thewalnut-tree. Soon he sat down in the woods that crossed his road, andthere, by the light of a candle-end that he had with him, eagerly openedthe dainty letter. 

The man clutched the paper angrily as he read. It was not from the poor, frightened girl whose words he had hoped to see, but from Mr. Reed, --aplain, strong letter, that, while it increased Slade's wrath, and showedhim the futility of pursuing his persecutions for the present, made himalso savagely hopeful. 

"Well, " he muttered to himself, as he stole through the rain, alongthe dark road towards the shabby house which was to shelter him for thenight, "I don't give her up yet by a good deal, and there's considerableworry ahead of George Reed still. Confound it! If I had that man's moneyand position I could work out the case to a certainty. But what can afellow do without a dime or a friend? What if the boy _has_ gone overthe sea to find out for himself, he isn't likely to succeed after allthese years; and if he _does_ get any further particulars, why they'rejust as apt as not to be all in my favor. The girl is just as likely tobe mine as theirs. Ten chances to one she's Kate's child, after all. Things will work right, yet. I'll bide my time. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

A TIME OF SUSPENSE. 

THAT same morning, after Josie had gone home to assist her mother inpreparations for the trip to California, Dorothy, exhausted by themorning's emotions, fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did notwaken till late in the afternoon. By the bed stood a little table, onwhich were two fine oranges, each on a Venetian glass plate, andsurmounted by a card. On one was written: "Miss Dorothy Reed, with thehigh, respectful consideration of her sympathizing friend, Edward Tyler, who hopes she will soon be well;" and the other bore a limping verse inJosie's familiar handwriting:

 "To this fair maid no _quarter_ show, Good Orange, sweet and yellow, But let her eat you--in a certain way That Dorothy and I both know-- That's a good fellow!"

Dorry appreciated both the notes and the oranges, and her spirits roseagain as she heard Liddy softly singing in the next room. That evening, after she and her uncle had had a long talk together, she kissed him forgood-night, and, though there were tears in her bright eyes, she lookeda spirited little maiden who did not intend to give herself up todoubting and grieving, so long as "there was more than hope" that shewas Dorothy. 

Half an hour later, the young girl stole softly down to the desertedsitting-room, lit only by the glowing remains of a wood-fire, and takingan unlighted student's lamp from the centre-table, made her rapid wayback to her pretty bedroom up stairs. Here, after putting on the softLady-Angelica wrapper, as Josie had called it, she sat for a long timein a low easy-chair, with her little red-slippered feet in a rug beforethe fire, thinking of all that the eventful day had brought her. 

"There is more than hope, " she mused, while her eyes were full oftears: "those were Uncle's very words--more than hope, that I am DorothyReed. But what if it really is not so; what if I am no relation tomy--to the Reed family at all--no relation to Uncle George nor toDonald?" From weeping afresh at this thought, and feeling utterly lonelyand wretched, she began to wonder how it would feel to be Delia. In thatcase, Aunt Kate would have been her mother. For an instant this was someconsolation, but she soon realized that, while Aunt Kate was very dearto her fancy, she could not think of her as her mother; and then therewas Uncle Robertson--no, she never could think of him as her father; andthat dreadful, cruel Eben Slade, her _uncle_? Horrible! At this thoughther soul turned with a great longing toward the unknown mother andfather, who, to her childish mind, had appeared merely as statelypersonages, full of good qualities--Mr. And Mrs. Wolcott Reed, honoredby all who knew them, but very unreal and shadowy to her. Now, as shesat half-dreaming, half-thinking, their images grew distinct and loving;they seemed to reach out their arms tenderly to her, and the many goodwords about them that from time to time had fallen tamely upon her earsnow gained life and force. She felt braver and better, clinging inimagination to them, and begging them to forgive her, their own girlDorothy, for not truly knowing them before. 

Meantime, the night outside had been growing colder and there were signsof a storm. A shutter in some other part of the building blew openviolently, and the wind moaned through the pine-trees at the corner ofthe house. Then the sweet, warm visions that had comforted her fadedfrom her mind and a dreadful loneliness came over her. A great longingfor Donald filled her heart. She tried to pray, --

 "No thought confessed, no wish expressed, Only a sense of supplication. "

Then her thoughts took shape, and she prayed for him, her brother, alonein a foreign land, and for Uncle, troubled and waiting, at home, and forherself, that she might be patient and good, and have strength to dowhat was right--even to go with Eben Slade to his distant home, _if shewere really his sister's child_. 

The storm became so dismal that Dorry poked the fire into a blaze, andlighted the student's lamp that she had placed on the table behind thearm-chair. Then she took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and an ovalhand-glass from her dressing-table, and, looking hurriedly about her tobe doubly sure that she was alone, she sat down resolutely, as if sayingto herself: "Now, we'll see!"

Poor Dot! The photograph showed Donald, a handsome, manly boy, of whomany loving sister might be proud; but the firm, boyish face, with itssquare brows, roundish features, and shining black hair, certainly didnot seem to be in the least like the picture that looked anxiously ather out of the hand-glass--a sweet face, with its oval outline, soft, dark eyes and long lashes, its low, arched eyebrows, its expressivemouth, and sunny, dark brown tresses. 

Feature by feature, she scanned the two faces carefully, unconsciouslydrawing in her warm-tinted cheeks and pouting her lips, in her desire toresemble the photograph; but it was of no use. The two faces would notbe alike; and yet, as she looked again, was there not something similarabout the foreheads and the lower line of the faces? Hastily pushingback her hair with one hand, she saw with joy that, excepting theeyebrows, there really was a likeness: the line where the hair began wascertainly almost the same on both faces. 

"Dear, dear old Donald! Why, we are just alike there! I'll show Uncleto-morrow. It's wonderful. "

Dorry laughed a happy little laugh, all by herself. 

"Besides, " she thought, as she laid the mirror away, "we are alike, inour natures, and in our ways and in loving each other, and I don't carea bit what anybody says to the contrary. "

Thus braced, she drew her chair closer to the table and began a letterto Donald. A vague consciousness that by this time every one in thehouse must be in bed and asleep deepened her sense of being alone withDonald as she wrote. It seemed that he read every word as soon as itfell upon the paper, and that in the stillness of the room she almostcould hear him breathe. 

It was a long letter. At any other time, Dorry's hand would have weariedwith the mere exercise of writing so many pages; but there was so muchto tell that she took no thought of fatigue. It was enough that she waspouring out her heart to Donald. 

"I know now, " the letter went on to say, "why you have gone to Europe, and why I was not told the errand. Dear, dear Donald! And you knew itall before you went away; and that is why you sometimes seemed silentand troubled, and why you were so patient and good and gentle with me, even when I teased you and made sport of you! Uncle told me thisafternoon all that he has to tell, and I have assured him that I amDorry, and nobody else, and that he need not be bothered about it anymore (though you know, Don, I cannot help feeling awfully. It's sodreadful to think of us all being so mixed up. The very idea of my notbeing Dorry makes me miserable. Yet, if I were anybody else, would I notbe the first to know it? Yes, Donald, whether you find proof or not, youdear, good, noble old fellow, _I am your sister_--I feel it in my verybones--and you are my brother. Nobody on earth can make me believe youare not. That dreadful man said in his letter that it was to GeorgeReed's interest that I should be known as Dorothy Reed. Oh, Don, as ifit were not to _my_ interest, too, and yours! But if it is not so, if itreally is _true_ that I am not Dorothy, but Delia, why, I must be Deliain earnest, and do my duty to my--_her_ mother's brother. He writes thathis wife is sick, and that he is miserable, with no comforts at home andno one to care whether he is good or bad. So, you see, I _must_ go andleave you and Uncle, if I am Delia. And, Don, there's another thing, though it's the least part of it: if I am Delia, I am poor, and it isright that I should earn my living, though you and Uncle should bothoppose it, for I am no relation to any one, --I mean any one here, --andit would not be honorable for me to stay here in luxury. 

"I can see your eyes flash at this, dear brother, or perhaps you willsay I am foolish to think of such things yet a while. So I am, may be, but I must talk to you of all that is in my thoughts. It is very lonelyhere to-night. The rain is pouring against the windows, and it seemslike November; and, do you know, I dread to-morrow, for I am afraid Imay show in _some_ way to dear Uncle George that I am not absolutelycertain he is any relation to me. I feel so strange! Even Jack and Liddydo not know who I really am. Wouldn't Josie and Ed be surprised if theyknew about things? I wish they did. I wish every one did, for secrecy isodious. 

"Donald, dear, this is an imbecile way of talking. I dare say I shalltear up my letter in the morning. No, I shall not. It belongs to you, for it is just what your loving old Dorry is thinking this night. 

"Good-night, my _brother_. In my letter, sent last Saturday, I told youhow delighted Uncle and I were with your descriptions of London andLiverpool. 

"I show Uncle your letters to me, but he does not return the compliment;that is, he has read to me only parts of those you have written to him. May be he will let me read them through _now_, since I know 'theimportant business. ' Keep up a good heart, Don, and do not mind mywhining a little in this letter. Now that I am going to sign my name, Ifeel as if every doubt I have expressed is almost wicked. So, good-nightagain, dear Donald, and ever so much love from your own faithful sister, DORRY. 

"P. S. --Uncle said this afternoon, when I begged him to start with meright away to join you in Europe, that if it were not for some mattersneeding his presence here, we might go; but that he cannot possiblyleave at present. Dear Uncle! I'll be glad when morning comes, so that Imay put my arms around his neck and be his own cheerful Dorry again. Liddy does not know yet that I have heard anything. I forgot to say thatMr. And Mrs. Manning are going to California, and that Josie is to spendtwo months with me. Won't that be a comfort? How strange it will seem tohave a secret from her! But Uncle says I must wait. 

"P. S. Again. --Be sure to answer this in English. I know we agreed tocorrespond in French, for the sake of the practice, but I have no heartfor it now. It is too hard work. Good-night, once more. The storm isover. Your loving

 DORRY. "

CHAPTER XXXI. 

ONLY A BIT OF RAG. 

DORRY'S long letter reached Donald two weeks later, as he sat in hisroom at a hotel in Aix-la-Chapelle. He had been feeling lonely andrather discouraged, notwithstanding the many sights that had interestedhim during the day. And after many disappointments and necessary delaysin the prosecution of the business that had taken him across the sea, hehad begun to feel that, perhaps, it would be just as well to sail forhome and let things go on as before. Dorry, he thought, need never knowof the doubts and anxieties that had troubled Uncle George and himself, and for his part he would rest in his belief that he and she wereWolcott Reed's own children, joint heirs to the estate, and, as Liddyhad so often called them, "the happiest pair of twins in the world. "

But Dot's letter changed everything. Now that she knew all, he wouldnot rest a day even, till her identity was proved beyond a possibilityof doubt. But how to do it? No matter; do it he would, if it were in thepower of man. (Donald in these days felt at least twenty years old. )Dorry's words had fired his courage anew. As he looked out upon thestarry night, over the roof-peaks of the quaint old city, he felt like aCrusader, and Dorothy's happiness was his Holy-land, to be rescued fromall invaders. The spirit of grand old Charlemagne, whose bones were inthe Cathedral close by, was not more resolute than Donald's was now. 

All this and more he told her in his letter written that night, but the"more" did not include the experiences of the past twelve hours ofdaylight. He did not tell her how he had that day, with much difficulty, found the Prussian physician who had attended his father, Wolcott Reed, in his last illness, and how very hard it had been to make the old maneven remember the family, and how little information, after all, he hadbeen able to obtain. 

"Vifteen year vas a long dime, eh?" the doctor had said in his brokenEnglish, and as for "dose dwin bapies, " he could recall "nod-ings abouddot at all. "

But Don's letter suited Dorothy admirably, and in its sturdy helpfulnessand cheer, and its off-hand, picturesque account of his adventures, itquite consoled her for the disappointment of not reading the letter thatshe was positively sure came to Mr. Reed by the same steamer. 

The full story of Donald's journey, with all its varied incidents up tothis period, would be too long to tell here. But the main points must bementioned. 

Immediately upon landing at Liverpool, Donald had begun his search forthe missing Ellen Lee, who, if she could be found, surely would be ableto help him, he thought. From all that Mr. Reed had been able to learnpreviously, she undoubtedly had been Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, and hadtaken charge of the twins on board of the fated vessel. Soon after theshipwreck she had been traced to Liverpool, as the reader knows, and haddisappeared at that time, before Mr. Reed's clerk, Henry Wakeley, couldsee her. But fifteen years had elapsed since then. Donald found thehouse in Liverpool where she had been, but could gain there noinformation whatever. The house had changed owners, and its formeroccupants had scattered, no one could say whither. But, by a persistentsearch among the neighboring houses, he did find a bright motherlywoman, who, more than fifteen years before, had come, a bride, to livein an opposite house, and who well remembered a tall, dark-complexionedyoung woman sitting one night on the steps of the shabby boarding-houseover the way. Some one had told her that this young woman had just beensaved from a shipwreck, and had lost everything but the clothes shewore; and from sheer sympathy she, the young wife, had gone across thestreet to speak to her. She had found her, at first, sullen anduncommunicative. "The girl was a foreigner, " said the long-ago bride, now a blooming matron with four children. "Leastwise, though sheunderstood me and gave me short answers in English, it struck me she wasFrench-born. Her black stuff gown was dreadful torn and ruined by thesea-water, sir, and so, as I was about her height, I made bold to offerher one of mine in its place. I had a plenty then, and me and my youngman was accounted comfortable from the start. She shook her head andmuttered something about 'not bein' a beggar, ' but do you know, sir, that the next day she come over to me, as I was knitting at my littlewindow, and says she, 'I go on to London, ' she says, 'and I'll take thatnow, if you be pleased, ' or something that way, I don't remember herwords; and so I showed her into my back room and put the fresh printgown on her. I can see her now a-takin' the things out of her own gownand pinning them so careful into the new pocket, because it wasn't sodeep and safe as the one in her old gown was; and then, tearin' offloose tatters of the black skirt and throwing them down careless-like, she rolled it up tight, and went off with it, a-noddin' her head anda-maircying me in French, as pretty as could be. I can't bring to mind afeature of her, exceptin' the thick, black hair, and her bein' about myown size. I was slender then, young master; fifteen years makes--"

"And those bits of the old gown, " interrupted Donald eagerly, "where arethey? Did you save them?"

"Laws, no, young gentleman, not I. They went into my rag-bag, like asnot, and are all thrown away and lost, sir, many a day agone, for thatmatter. "

"I am sorry, " said Donald. "Even a scrap of her gown might possibly beof value to me. "

"Was she belonging to your family?" asked the woman, doubtfully. 

Donald partly explained why he wished to find Ellen Lee; and asked ifthe girl had said anything to her of the wreck, or of two babies. 

"Not a word, sir, not a word; though I tried to draw her into talkin'. It's very little she said, at best; she was a-grumpy-like. "

"What about that rag-bag?" asked Donald, returning to his former trainof thought. "Have you the same one yet?"

"That I have, " she answered, laughing; "and likely to have it for many ayear to come. My good mother made it for me when I was married, and soI've kept it and patched it till it's like Joseph's coat; and usefulenough it's been, too--holding many a bit that's done service to me andmy little romps. 'Keep a thing seven year, ' my mother used to say, 'keepit seven year an' turn it, an' seven year again, an' it'll come intoplay at last. '"

"Why may you not have saved that tatter of the old gown twice sevenyears, then?" persisted Donald. 

"Why, bless you, young sir, there's no knowin' as to that. But youcouldn't find it, if I had. For why? the black pieces, good, bad, andindifferent, are all in one roll together, and you nor I couldn't tellwhich it was. "

"Likely enough, " said Donald, in a disappointed tone; "and yet, couldyou--that is--really, if you wouldn't mind, I'd thank you very much ifwe could look through that rag-bag together. "

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the woman, seized with a sudden dread that heryoung visitor might not be in his right senses. 

"If I could find those pieces of black stuff, " he urged, significantly, "it would be worth a golden guinea to me. "

Sure, now, that he was a downright lunatic, she moved back from him witha frightened gesture; but glancing again at his bright, manly face, shesaid in a different tone:

"And it would be worth a golden guinea to _me_, young master, just tohave the joy of finding them for you. Step right into this room, sir, and you, Nancy and Tom" (to a shy little pair who had been sitting, unobserved, on the lowest step of the clean, bare stairway), "you run upand drag the old piece-bag down to Mother. You shall have your way, young gentleman--though it's the oddest thing that ever happened to me. "

The huge bag soon came tumbling down the stairs, with soft thuds; butthe little forms that, for the time, had given it life and motion, didnot appear. Donald gladly drew it into the little room, where hishostess soon extracted from its depths a portly black roll. 

Alas! To the boyish mind a bundle made of scores of different sorts ofblack pieces rolled together is anything but expressive. On firstopening it, Donald looked hopelessly at the motley heap; but the kindwoman helped him somewhat by rapidly throwing piece after piece aside, with, "That can't be it--that's like little Tom's trousers;" "Northat, --that's what I wore for poor mother;" "Nor that--that's to mend myJohn's Sunday coat;" and so on, till there were not more than a dozenscraps left. Of these, three showed that they had been cut with a pairof scissors, but the others were torn pieces, and of different kinds ofblack goods. Don felt these pieces, held them up to the light, and indespair, was just going to beg her to let him have them all for futureinvestigation, when his face suddenly brightened. 

Putting one of the pieces between his lips, he shook his head withrather a disgusted expression, as though the flavor were anything butagreeable, then tried another and another (the woman meantime regardinghim with speechless amazement), till at last, holding out a strip andsmacking his lips, he exclaimed:

"I have it! This is it! It's as salt as brine!"

"Good land!" she cried; "salt! who ever heard of such a thing, --and inmy rag-bag? How could that be?"

Don paid no attention to her. Tasting another piece, that proved oncloser examination to be of the same material, he found it to be equallysalt. 

His face displayed a comical mixture of nausea and delight as he sprangto his feet, crying out:

"Oh! ma'am, I can never thank you enough. These are the pieces of EllenLee's gown, I am confident--unless they have been salted in some waysince you've had them. "

"Not they, sir; I can warrant that. But who under the canopy everthought of the taste of a shipwrecked gown before!"

"Smell these, " he said, holding the pieces toward her. "Don't you noticea sort of salt-sea odor about them?"

"Not a bit, " she answered, emphatically, shaking her head. Then, stillcautiously sniffing at the pieces, she added: "Indeed and I _do_ fancyso now. It's faint, but it's there, sir. Fifteen years ago! How saltdoes cling to things! The poor woman must have been pulled out of thevery sea!"

"That doesn't follow, " remarked Donald: "her skirt might have beensoaked by the splashing of the waves after she was let down into thesmall boat. "

Donald talked a while longer with his new acquaintance, but finallybade her good-day, first, however, writing down the number of her house, and giving her his address, and begging her to let him know if, at anytime, she and her husband should move from that neighborhood. 

"Should _what_, sir?"

"Should _move_--go to live in another place. "

"Not we, " she replied, proudly. "We live here, we do sir, John andmyself, and the four children. His work's near by, and here we'll be formany's the day yet, the Lord willing. No, _no_, please never think ofsuch a thing as that, " she continued, as Donald diffidently thrust hishand into his pocket. "Take the cloth with you, sir, and welcome; but mychildren shall never have it to say that their mother took pay for threeold pieces of cloth--no, nor for showing kindness either" (as Donpolitely put in a word), "above all things, not for kindness. God blessyou, young master, an' help you in findin' her--that's all I can say, and a good-day to you. "

"That French nurse probably went home again to France, " mused Donald, after gratefully taking leave of the good woman and her rag-bag. "As wetwins were born at Aix-la-Chapelle, in Prussia, most likely motherobtained a nurse there. But it needn't have been a Prussian nurse. Itwas this same French girl, I warrant. Yes, and this French nurse verynaturally found her way back to France after she was landed atLiverpool. But, for all that, I _may_ find some clew to her atAix-la-Chapelle. "

Before going to that interesting old Prussian city, however, he decidedto proceed to London and see what could be ascertained there. In London, though he obtained the aid of one James Wogg, a detective, he could findno trace of the missing Ellen Lee. But the detective's quick sense drewenough from Donald's story of the buxom matron and the two gowns towarrant his going to Liverpool, "if the young gent so ordered, to workup the search. "

"Had the young gent thought to ask for a bit like the new gown that wasput onto Ellen Lee? No? Well, that always was the way withunprofessionals--not to say the young gent hadn't been uncommon sharp, as it was. "

Donald, pocketing his share of the compliment, heartily accepted thedetective's services, after making a careful agreement as to the scaleof expenses, and giving, by the aid of his guide-book, the name of thehotel in Aix-la-Chapelle where a letter from the detective would reachhim. He also prepared an advertisement "on a new principle, " as heexplained to the detective, very much to that worthy's admiration. "Ellen Lee has been advertised for again and again, " he said, "andpromised to be told 'something to her advantage;' but if still alive, she evidently has some reason for hiding. It is possible that it mighthave been she who threw the two babies from the sinking ship into thelittle boat, and as news of the rescue of all in that boat may neverhave reached her, she all this time may have feared that she would beblamed or made to suffer in some way for what she had done. I mean toadvertise, " continued Donald to the detective, "that information iswanted of a Frenchwoman, Ellen Lee, by the two babies _whose lives shesaved_ at sea, and who, by addressing so-and-so, can learn of somethingto her advantage, --and we'll see what will come of it. "

"Not so, " suggested Mr. Wogg. "It's a good dodge; but say, rather, 'bytwo young persons whose lives she saved when they were babies;' there'smore force to it that way. And leave out 'at sea;' it gives too much tothe other party. Best have 'em address 'Mr. James Wogg, Old Bailey, N. London. '" But Donald would not agree to this last point. 

Consequently, after much painstaking on the part of Donald and Mr. Wogg, the following advertisement appeared in the London and Liverpoolpapers:--

 IF ELLEN LEE, A FRENCHWOMAN, WILL KINDLY SEND her address to D. R. , in care of Dubigk's Hotel, Aix-la-Chapelle, Prussia, she shall receive the grateful thanks of two young persons whose lives she saved when they were infants, and hear of something greatly to her advantage. 

Again Ellen Lees, evidently not French, came into view, lured by thevague terms of the advertisement, but as quickly disappeared under thedetective's searching inspection; and again it seemed as if thatparticular Ellen Lee, as Mr. Reed had surmised, had vanished from theearth. But Mr. Wogg assured his client that it took time for anadvertisement to make its way into the rural districts of England, andhe must be patient. 

Donald, therefore, proceeded at once to Dover, on the English coast, thence sailed over to Ostend, in Belgium, and from there went by railwayto his birthplace, Aix-la-Chapelle. As his parents had settled therethree months before his mother started for home, he felt that, in everyrespect, this was the most promising place for his search. He had calledupon George Robertson's few family connections in London, but they knewvery little about that gentleman, excepting that when very young he hadgone to America to seek his fortune; that in time he had married awell-to-do young American lady and had then come back to settle inEngland; that he soon had lost everything, being very reckless andunfortunate in business; that his wife, in her poverty, had receivedhelp from somebody travelling in Prussia; and that the couple had beensent for to meet this friend or relative at Havre, when his little girlwas not two months old, and all had sailed for America together. Donaldknew as much as this already. If, fifteen years before, they could giveMr. Reed no description of the baby, they certainly could give Donald nosatisfaction now. So far from gathering from them any new facts ofimportance, in regard to their lost kinsman and his wife and child, theyhad all this time, as Donald wrote to Mr. Reed, been very active inforgetting him and his affairs. Still, Donald succeeded in revivingtheir old promise that, if anything _should_ turn up that would throwany light on the history of "poor Robertson's" family, they would loseno time in communicating the fact--this time to Mr. Reed's nephew, Donald. 

No word had been heard from them up to the evening that Dorothy'sletter arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle; no satisfactory response, either, hadbeen called forth by the Ellen Lee advertisement; and Donald, who hadhad, as we know, a disappointing interview with his father's physician, was weary and almost discouraged. Moreover, every effort to find thestore at which the gold chain had been purchased was in vain. But nowthat Dorothy's letter had come, bringing him new energy and courage, theoutlook was brighter. There still were many plans to try. Surely some ofthem must succeed. In the first place, he would translate his Ellen-Leeadvertisement into French, and insert it in Paris and Aix-la-Chapellenewspapers. Strange that no one had thought of doing this before. Thenhe would--no, he wouldn't--but, on the other hand, why not send--And atthis misty point of his meditations he fell asleep, to dream, not as onewould suppose, of Dorothy, but of the grand Cathedral standing in placeof the Chapel from which this special Aix obtained its name; of thewonderful hot springs in the public street; of the baths, the music, andthe general stir and brightness of this fascinating old Prussian city. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

DONALD MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

THE new French advertisement and a companion to it, printed in German, were duly issued; but, alas! nothing came from them. However, Donaldcarefully preserved the black pieces he had obtained in Liverpool, trusting that, in some way, they yet might be of service to him. He nowvisited the shops, examined old hotel registers, and hunted up personswhose address he had obtained from his uncle, or from the owners of the"Cumberland. " The few of these that were to be found could, after all, but repeat what they remembered of the account they had given to Mr. Reed and Henry Wakeley many years before. 

Don found in an old book of one of the hotels at Aix-la-Chapelle thenames of Mr. And Mrs. Wolcott Reed on the list of arrivals, --no mentionof a maid or of a child. Then, in the books of another hotel whitherthey had moved, he found a settlement for board of Wolcott Reed, wife, and maid. At the same hotel a later entry recorded that Mrs. WolcottReed (widow), nurse, and two infants had left for France, and lettersfor her were to be forwarded to Havre. There were several entriesconcerning settlements for board and other expenses, but these toldDonald nothing new. Finally, he resolved to follow as nearly as he couldthe course his mother was known to have taken from Aix-la-Chapelle toHavre, where she was joined by Mr. And Mrs. Robertson and their babydaughter, a few days before the party set sail from that French port forNew York. 

Yes, at Havre he would be sure to gain some information. If need be, hecould settle there for a while, and patiently follow every possible clewthat presented itself. Perhaps the chain had been purchased there. Whatmore likely, he thought, than that, just before sailing, his mother hadbought the pretty little trinket as a parting souvenir? The questionwas, had she got it for her own little twin-daughter, or for Aunt Kate'sbaby? That point remained to be settled. Taking his usual precaution ofleaving behind him an address, to which all coming messages or lettersfrom Mr. Wogg or others could be forwarded, Donald bade farewell toAix-la-Chapelle, and, disregarding every temptation to stop along theway, hurried on, past famous old cities, that, under othercircumstances, would have been of great interest to him. 

"We, all three, can come here together, some time, and see the sights, "he thought to himself; "now I can attend only to the business thatbrought me over here. "

At Havre he visited the leading shops where jewelry and fancy goodswere sold or manufactured. These were not numerous, and some of them hadnot been in existence fifteen years before, at the time when thesad-hearted widow and her party were there. There was no distinctivemaker's mark on the necklace from which Donald had hoped so much, and noone knew anything about it, nor cared to give it any attention, unlessthe young gentleman wished to sell it. Then they might give a trifle. Itwas not a very rare antique, they said, valuable from its age; jewelrysimply out of date was worth only its weight, and a little chain likethis was a mere nothing. As Donald was returning to his hotel, weary andinclined to be dispirited, he roused himself to look for _Rue deCorderie, numéro 47_, or, as we Americans would say, Number 47 CorderieStreet. As this house is famous as the birthplace of Bernardin de St. Pierre, author of "Paul and Virginia, " Donald wished to see it forhimself, and also to be able to describe it to Dorothy. He did not visitit on that day, however; for on his way thither his attention wasarrested by a very small shop which he had not noticed before, andwhich, in the new-looking city of Havre, appeared to be fully a centuryold. Entering, he was struck with the oddity of its interior. The placewas small, not larger than the smallest room at Lakewood, and though itsfront window displayed only watches, and a notice in French and Englishthat Monsieur Bajeau repaired jewelry at short notice, it was so crowdedwith rare furniture and bric-à-brac that Donald, for a moment, thoughthe had entered the wrong shop. But, no! There hung the watches, in fullsight, and a bright-faced old man in a black skull-cap was industriouslyrepairing a bracelet. 

"May I see the proprietor of this store, please?" asked Donald, politely. 

"Oui, Monsieur, " replied the old man, with equal courtesy, rising andstepping forward. "Je suis--I am ze popriétaire, je ne comprend pas. Ino speak ze Ingleesh. Parlez-vous Français--eh?"

"Oh, yes, " said Donald, too full of his errand to be conscious that hewas not speaking French, as he carefully took a little red velvet casefrom an inside pocket, "I wished to show you this necklace--to ask ifyou--"

The old man listened with rather an aggrieved air. "Ah! Eh! I sallre-paire it, you say?" then adding wistfully, "You no speak ze French?"

"Oui, oui, Monsieur, --pardonnez, " said Donald, thus reminded. From thatmoment he and the now radiant Monsieur Bajeau got on finely together, for Donald's French was much better than Monsieur's English; and, intruth, the young man was very willing to practise speaking it in theretirement of this quaint little shop. Their conversation shall betranslated here, however. 

"Have you ever seen this before, sir?" asked Donald, taking the preciousnecklace from the box and handing it to him over the little counter. 

"No, " answered the shop-keeper, shaking his head as he took the trinket. "Ah! that is very pretty. No, not a very old chain. It is modern, butvery odd--very fine--unique, we say. Here are letters, " as he turned theclasp and examined its under side. "What are they? They are so small. Your young eyes are sharp. Eh?" Here Monsieur bent his head and lookedinquiringly at Donald from over his spectacles. 

"D. R. , " said Don. 

"Ah, yes! D. R. ; now I see, " as he turned them to the light. "D. R. , --that is strange! Now, I think I have seen those same engravedletters before. Why, my young friend, as I look at this little chain, something carries the years away and I am a younger man. It brings verymuch to mind--Hold!--No, it is all gone now. I must have made amistake. "

Donald's heart beat faster. 

"Did _you_ make the chain?" he asked. 

"No, no, never. I never made a chain like it--but I have seen that chainbefore. The clasp is very--very--You know how it opens?"

"It is rusty inside, " explained Donald, leaning forward anxiously, lestit should be injured. "We need not open it. " Then controlling hisexcitement, he asked as calmly as he could:

"You have seen it before, Monsieur?"

"I have seen it. Where is the key?"

"The key, Monsieur? What do you mean?"

"The key that opens the clasp, " returned the Frenchman, with suddenimpatience. This American boy began to appear rather stupid inMonsieur's eyes. Donald looked at him in amazement. 

"Does it lock?"

"Does it lock?" echoed Monsieur. "Why, see here;" and with these wordshe tried to press the upper part of the clasp aside. It stuck at first, but finally yielded, sliding around from the main part on an invisiblelittle pivot, and disclosing a very small key-hole. 

Donald stared at it in hopeful bewilderment. Evidently his uncle hadfailed to find this key-hole, so deftly concealed!

The old man eyed his visitor shrewdly. Having been for some time adealer in rare bric-à-brac, he prided himself on being up to the tricksof persons who had second-hand treasures to sell. 

"Is this chain yours?" he asked, coldly. "Do you bring it to sell to me?All this is very strange. I wish I could remember--"

"Oh, no, indeed. Not to sell. Yes, the chain is mine, my sister's--myuncle's, I mean--in America. "

Monsieur drew back with added distrust, but he was reassured by Donald'searnest tone. "Oh, Monsieur, pray recall all you can about this matter. I cannot tell you how important it is to me--how anxious I am to hear!"

"Young man, your face is pale; you are in trouble. Come in and sitdown, " leading the way into a small room behind the shop. "As for thisnecklace, there is something--but I cannot think; it is something in thepast years that will not come back--Ah! I hear a customer; I must go. Pardon me, I will return presently. "

So saying, Monsieur left him. Bending slightly and taking short, quicksteps, he hurried into the shop. Donald thought the old man was gone foran hour, though it really was only five minutes. But it had given him anopportunity to collect his thoughts, and when Monsieur returned, Donaldwas ready with a question:

"Perhaps a lady--a widow--brought the chain to you long ago, sir?"

[Illustration: MONSIEUR BAJEAU BECOMES INTERESTED IN DONALD'S CHAIN. ]

"A widow!" exclaimed Monsieur, brightening, "a widow dressed inblack--yes, it comes back to me--a day, ten, twenty years ago--I see itall! A lady--two ladies--no, one was a servant, a genteel nurse; bothwore black, and there was a little baby--two little babies--very little;I see them now. "

"Two!" exclaimed Donald, half wild with eagerness. 

"Yes, two pink little fellows. "

"Pink!" In a flash, Donald remembered the tiny pink sacque, now in hisvalise at the hotel. 

"Yes, pink little faces, with lace all around--very droll--the littlestbabies I ever saw taken into the street. Well, the pretty lady in blackcarried one, and the nurse--she was a tall woman--carried the other. "

"Yes, yes, please, " urged Donald. He longed to help Monsieur on with theaccount, but it would be better, he knew, to let him take his own way. 

It all came out in time, little by little, but complete, at last. Thewidow lady had gone to the old man's shop, with two infants and a tallnurse. Taking from her purse a tiny gold key, she had unlocked anecklace from one of the babies' necks, and requested Monsieur Bajeau toengrave a name on the under side of its small square clasp. 

"A name?" asked Donald, thinking of the two initials. 

"Yes, a name--a girl's name, " continued the old man, rubbing his chinand speaking slowly, as if trying to recollect. "Well, no matter. Intending to engrave the name later in the afternoon, I wrote it down inmy order-book, and asked the lady for her address, so that I might sendthe chain to her the next day. But, no; she would not leave it. She musthave the name engraved at once, right away, and must put the necklaceherself on her little daughter. She would wait. Ah, how it all comesback to me! Well, I wished to obey the lady, and so set to work. But Isaw immediately there was not space enough for the whole name. She wasvery sorry, poor lady, and then she said I should put on the two lettersD. R. There they are, you see, my own work--you see that? And she paidme, and locked the chain on the baby's neck again--ah me! it is sostrange!--and she went away. That is all I know. "

He had spoken the last few sentences rapidly, after Donald had asked, with eagerness, "What name, Monsieur? What was the name, please, thename that the lady wished you to engrave?"

Now the old man, hardly pausing, deliberately went back to Don'squestion. 

"The name? the name?--I cannot quite say. "

"Was it--Delia?" suggested Donald, faintly. 

"Yes, Delia. That was the name. "

If Donald had been struck, he scarcely could have been more stunned. 

"Wait!" exclaimed Monsieur. "We shall see. I will search the old books. Do you know the year? 1850?--60? what?"

"1859, November, " said Donald, wearily, his joy all turned to misgiving. 

"Ha! Now we can be sure! Come into the shop. Your young legs can mountthese steps. If you please, hand down the book for 1859; you see it onthe back. Ah, how dusty! I have kept them so long. Now"--taking thevolume from Donald's trembling hands--"we shall see. "

Don leaned over him, as the old man, mumbling softly to himself, examined page after page. 

"July, August, September--ah, I was a very busy man in those days--plentyto do with my hands, but not making money as I have been since--differentline of business for the most part--October--November--here it is. "

Donald leaned closer. He gave a sudden cry. Yes, there it was--a hastymemorandum; part of the writing was unintelligible to him, but the mainword stood clear and distinct. 

It was DOROTHY. 

"Ah! Dorothy, " echoed the other. "Yes, that was it. I told you so. "

"You said Delia, " suggested Don. 

The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia. "

"But it's _Dorothy_, " insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in histone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain asday. "

To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but headjusted his glasses and looked at the book again. 

"Yes--Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if youare pleased. " Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in mybook is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the ladytold me. " An antique clock behind them struck "two. " "Ah, it is time forme to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend?We are not strangers now. "

Strangers indeed! Donald fairly loved the man. He did not accept theinvitation, but thanking him again and again, agreed to return in theevening; for Monsieur Bajeau wished to know more of the strange story. 

Donald walked back to the hotel lightly as though treading the air. Everything looked bright to him. Havre, he perceived, was one of themost delightful cities in the world. He felt like sending a cablemessage home about the chain, but on second thought resolved to becautious. It would not do to raise hopes that might yet be disappointed. It was just possible that after that visit to Monsieur Bajeau, hismother, for some reason, had transferred the necklace to baby Delia'sneck. He would wait. His work was not yet finished; but he had made asplendid beginning. 

More than one tourist hurrying through Havre that day, bound for thesteamer, or for that pride of the city, the hill of Ingouville, to enjoythe superb view, noticed the young lad's joyous face and buoyant step ashe passed by. 

Donald walked briskly into the hotel, intent upon writing a cheeryletter home; but, from habit, he stopped at the desk to ask if there wasanything for him. 

"Mr. D. Reed?" asked the hotel clerk, pointing to a bulky envelope halfcovered with postage stamps. 

"That's my name, " returned the happy boy, as he hurriedly tore open oneend of the envelope. "Whew! Six!"

There were indeed six letters; and all had been forwarded fromAix-la-Chapelle. 

One was from Mr. Wogg, enclosing a bit of printed calico and a soiledmemorandum, stating that he sent herewith a piece like the gown whichthe party in Liverpool had given to the young Frenchwoman fifteen yearsbefore. He had obtained it, Mr. Wogg said, "from an old patch-work quiltin the possession of the party, and had paid said party one crown forthe same. " Two letters were from Mr. Reed and Dorothy, and the rest, three in number--addressed to D. R. , in care of Dubigk's Hotel, Aix-la-Chapelle--were from three persons with very differenthandwritings, but each was signed "Ellen Lee. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW. 

DONALD, going to his room, laid the three Ellen-Lee letters upon thetable before him and surveyed the situation That only one of them couldbe from the right Ellen Lee seemed evident; but which one? That was thequestion. 

"This cannot be it, " thought Donald, as he took up a badly written andmuch blotted sheet. "It is English-French, and evidently is in thehandwriting of a man. Well, this brilliant person requests me to sendone hundred francs to pay _her_ expenses to Aix-la-Chapelle, and _she_will then prove _her_ identity and receive the grateful reward. Thankyou, my good man!--not if the court knows itself. We'll lay you asidefor the present. "

The next was from a woman--a _bonne_--who stated that by good nursingshe had saved so many babies' lives in her day that she could not besure which two babies this very kind "D. R. " alluded to, but her namewas Madame L. N. Lit. A wise friend had told her of this advertisement, and explained that as L. N. Lit in French and Ellen Lee in English hadexactly the same sound, the inquirer probably was a native of GreatBritain, and had made a very natural mistake in writing her name EllenLee. Therefore she had much pleasure in informing the kind advertiserthat at present her address was No. -- Rue St. Armand, Rouen, where shewas well known, and that she would be truly happy to hear of somethingto her advantage. Donald shook his head very doubtfully, as he laid thisletter aside. But the next he read twice, and even then he did not layit down until he had read it again. It was a neatly written little note, and simply stated, in French, that D. R. Could see Ellen Lee by callingat No. --Rue Soudière, Paris, and making inquiry for Madame René. 

"An honest little note, " was Donald's verdict, after carefullyscrutinizing it, "and worth following up. The others can wait. I shallgo to Paris and look up this Madame René. Yes, she shall receive a visitfrom his majesty. "

Don was in high spirits, you see, --and no wonder. He already hadaccomplished a splendid day's work in visiting M. Bajeau, and here wasat least a promising result from his advertisement. He longed to rushback at once to the quaint little shop, but he had been asked to come inthe evening, and the old gentleman had a certain dignity of manner thatDon respected. He felt that he must be patient and await the appointedhour. 

It came at last, and by that time Donald had enjoyed a hearty meal, written to Mr. Wogg, and made all needed preparations to take theearliest train for Paris the next day. 

M. Bajeau--good old man!--was made happy as a boy by the sight of EllenLee's letter. 

"It is great good luck, my friend, that it should come to you, " he said, in rapid French, his old cheeks faintly flushing with pleasure. "Now, you take my word, if she is tall, dark, fine-looking--this Madame René, eh?--you have found the very _bonne_ who came to my little shop with thewidow lady. Ask her about me--if she remember, eh? how I engraved thetwo letters with my own hand, while she stood by, holding the pink-facedbaby--ha! ha!" (Here Monsieur rubbed his hands. ) "She will remember! Shewill prove what I say, without doubt. She will know about the key to thenecklace--yes, and the lock that has the air of a clasp. Let me see itagain. You have it with you?"

Donald displayed the treasure promptly. 

"Stay, " said Monsieur. "I will, with your permission, try and open thelittle lock for you. I shall be very careful. "

"No, no--thank you!" said Donald, quickly, as M. Bajeau took up adelicate tool. "I would rather wait till I have tried to find the key, and until my uncle and--and sister have seen it again just as it is. Myuncle, I am positive, never discovered that the top of the clasp couldbe slid around in this way. The key itself may come to light yet--whoknows? Now, Monsieur, will you do me a great favor?"

"Name it, " replied the old man, eying him not unkindly. 

"Will you allow me to cut that page out of your order-book?"

"Certainly, my boy; certainly, and with pleasure, " said M. Bajeau. 

No sooner said than done. Donald, who had his penknife ready, delightedM. Bajeau with his clever way of cutting out the page close to its innerside, and yet in a zigzag line, so that at any time afterward the papercould be fitted into its place in the book, in case it should benecessary to prove its identity. 

Next the story of the chain was retold with great care, and written downby Don as it came from Monsieur's lips, word for word, and signed by M. Bajeau with trembling nicety. "Stay!" he exclaimed, as he laid down thepen. "It will be right for me to certify to this in legal form. Early inthe morning, we can go to my good neighbor the notary and sign thepaper. In a day or so we shall know whether this Madame René is EllenLee. If so, she will remember that hour spent in the shop of thewatch-mender Bajeau, ha! ha!"

Monsieur could afford to laugh, for, though he still repaired watches, he had risen somewhat in worldly success and dignity since that day. AnAmerican, under the same circumstances, would by this time have had ashowy bric-à-brac establishment, with a large sign over the door. ButMonsieur Bajeau was content with his old shop, well satisfied to knowthe value of the treasures of jewelry and rare furniture which he boughtand sold. 

The visit to the notary over, Donald took his leave, promising the oldman to come and bid him good-by before sailing for America, and, ifpossible, to bring Ellen Lee with him to Monsieur Bajeau's shop. 

Late in the afternoon of the same day, after a dusty seven hours' ridein a railway coach, he found himself in Paris, on the way to the RueSoudière, in search of Madame René. 

It was something beside the effort of mounting five flights of stairsthat caused his heart to beat violently when, after inquiring at everylanding-place on his way up, he finally knocked at a small door on thevery top story. 

A short, middle-aged woman, with pale blue eyes and scanty gray hair, opened the door. 

"Is this Madame René?" asked Donald, devoutly hoping that she would say"No. "

The woman nodded, at the same time regarding him with suspicion, and notopening the door wide enough for him to enter. 

"You replied to an advertisement, I believe?" began Donald again, bowingpolitely; but noting the woman's blank reception of his English, herepeated the inquiry in French. The door opened wide; the woman smiled asmile that might have been agreeable but for the lonely effect of hersolitary front tooth, and then courteously invited her visitor to enterand be seated. 

Poor Donald, wishing that he were many miles away, and convinced thatnothing could come of an interview with this short, stout, pale-eyed"Ellen Lee, " took a chair and waited resignedly for Madame to speak. 

"I have advertised, " she said in French, "and am ready to begin work. "

Donald looked at her inquiringly. 

"Perhaps Madame, the young gentleman's mother, " she suggested, "wishes afine pastry-cook at once?"

"A pastry-cook!" exclaimed Donald, in despair. "I came to see Ellen Lee, or rather to inquire for Madame René. Is your name René?"

"I am Madame René, " a woman answered, in well-spoken English, as shestepped forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had beensitting unobserved by Donald. "Who is it wishes to see Ellen Lee?"

"The boy whose life she saved!" said Donald, rising to his feet andholding out his hand, unable in his excitement to be as guarded as hehad intended to be. A glance had convinced him that this was Ellen Lee, indeed. The woman, tall, dark-eyed, stately, very genteel in spite ofevident poverty, was about thirty-five years of age. There was nomistaking the sudden joy in her care-worn face. She seized his hand, without a word; then, as if recollecting herself, and feeling that shemust be more cautious, she eyed him sharply, saying:

"And the other? the brother? There were two. Is he living?"

For a second Donald's heart sank; but he quickly recovered himself. Perhaps she was trying tricks upon him; if so, he must defend himself aswell as he could. So he answered, carelessly, but heartily, "Oh! he'salive and well, thank you, and thanks to you. "

This time they looked into each other's eyes--she, with a suddenexpression of disappointment, for would-be shrewd people are apt to givelittle credit to others for equal shrewdness. 

"Did you never have a sister?" she asked, with some hesitation. 

"Oh, yes!" he replied, "but I must ask you now to tell me something ofEllen Lee, and how she saved us. I can assure you of one thing--I amalive and grateful. Pray tell me your story with perfect frankness. Inthe first place, --are you and Ellen Lee the same?"

"Yes. "

"And do you know _my_ name?"

"Indeed I do, " she said, a slow smile coming into her face. "I will befrank with you. If you are the person I believe you to be, your name isDonald Reed. "

"Good!" he exclaimed, joyfully; "and the other--what was--"

"_His_ name?" she interrupted, again smiling. "_His_ name was DorothyReed, sir! They were twins--a beautiful boy and girl. "

To the latest day of his life Donald never will forget that moment; andhe never will understand why he did not jump to his feet, grasp herhand, ask her dozens of questions at once, and finally implore her totell him what he could do to prove his gratitude. He had, in fancy, acted out just such a scene while on his hopeful way to Paris. But, no. In reality, he just drew his chair a little nearer hers, --feeling, as heafterwards told his uncle, thoroughly comfortable, --and in the quietestpossible way assured her that she was right as to the boy's name, but, to his mind, it would be very difficult for her to say which little girlshe had saved--whether it was the baby-sister or the baby-cousin. 

This was a piece of diplomacy on his part that would have delighted Mr. Wogg. True, he would prefer to be entirely frank on all occasions, but, in this instance, he felt that Mr. Wogg would highly disapprove of his"giving the case away" by letting the woman know that he hoped toidentify Dorothy as his sister. What if Madame René, in the hope of moresurely "hearing of something greatly to her advantage, " were to favorhis desire that the rescued baby should be Dorothy and not Delia?

"What do you mean?" asked Madame René. 

"I mean, that possibly the little girl you saved was my cousin and notmy sister, " he replied, boldly. 

Ellen Lee shrank from him a moment, and then almost angrily said:

"Why not your sister? Ah, I understand!--you would then be sole heir. But I must tell the truth, young gentleman; so much has been on myconscience all these years that I wish to have nothing left to reproachme. There was a time when, to get a reward, I might, perhaps, have beenwilling to say that the other rescued baby was your cousin, but now myheart is better. Truth is truth. I held little Donald and Dorothy bothin these arms that terrible night. If I saved any little girl, it wasDorothy; and Dorothy was Donald Reed's twin sister. "

Donald gave an exclamation of delight, but he checked himself as heglanced toward the short, light-haired Madame, whose peculiar appearancehad at first threatened to blight his expectations. She was now seatedby the small window, industriously mending a coarse woollen stocking, and evidently caring very little for the visitor, as he was not insearch of a pastry-cook. 

"We need not mind her, " Madam René explained. "Marie Dubois is a good, dull-witted soul, who stays here with me when she is out of a situation. She cannot understand a word of English. We have decided to separatesoon, and to leave these lodgings. I cannot make enough money with myneedle to live here; and so we must both go out and work--I as asewing-woman, and she as a cook. Ah me! In the years gone by I hoped togo to America and live with that lovely lady, your poor mother. "

"Do you remember her well?" asked Donald, hesitating as to which one ofa crowd of questions he should ask first. 

"Perfectly, sir. She was very handsome. Ah me! and so good, so grand!The other lady--her husband's sister, I think, was very pretty, verysweet and gentle; but _my_ lady was like a queen. I can see a trace ofher features--just a little--in yours, Mr. --Mr. Reed. I did not atfirst; but the likeness grows on me. "

"And this?" asked Donald, taking a photograph from his pocket. "Do yousee any resemblance here to my mother?"

She held it up to the light, and looked at it long and wistfully. "Poorlady!" she said at last. 

"Poor lady?" echoed Donald, rather amused at hearing his bright littleDorry spoken of in that way; "she is barely sixteen. "

"Ah, no! It is the mother I am thinking of. How proud and happy shewould be now with this beautiful daughter! For surely this _is_ yoursister's likeness, sir?"

Ellen Lee looked up quickly, but, reassured by Donald's prompt "Yes, indeed, " she again studied the picture. 

It was one that he had carried about with him ever since he lefthome--putting it upon the wall[1] or the bureau of his room, wherever hehad chanced to lodge; and it showed Dorothy just as she looked the daybefore he sailed. He had gone with her to the photographer's to have ittaken, and for his sake she had tried to forget that they were sosuddenly to say "good-by. "

"Ah, what a bright, happy face! A blessed day indeed it would be to meif I could see you two, grown to a beautiful young lady and gentleman, standing together--"

"That you _shall_ see, " responded Donald, heartily, not because heaccepted the title of beautiful young gentleman, but because his heartwas full of joy to think of the happy days to come, when the shadow ofdoubt and mystery would be forever lifted from the home at Lakewood. 

"Is she coming? Is she here?" cried Madame René, who, misinterpretingDonald's words, had risen to her feet, half expecting to see the younggirl enter the room. 

"No. But depend upon it, you will go there, " said Don. "You must carryout the dream of your youth, and begin life in America. My uncle surelywill send for you. You know, I promised that you should hear ofsomething greatly to your advantage. "

"But the ocean, " she began, with a show of dread, in spite of thepleasure that shone in her eyes. "I could never venture upon the great, black ocean again!"

"It will not be the black ocean this time. It will be the blue ocean, full of light and promise, " said Donald, growing poetic, "and it willbear you to comfort and prosperity. Dorothy and I will--"

"Dorothy!" cried Ellen Lee. "Yes, I feel as if I could cross two oceansto see you both together, alive and well, so I could. "

At this point Madame Dubois, rousing herself, said, rather querulously, in her native tongue: "Elise, are you to talk all night? Have youforgotten that you are to take me to see the lady on the Rue St. Honoréat six?"

"Ah, I did forget, " was the reply. "I will go at once, if the younggentleman will excuse me. "

"Certainly, " said Donald, rising; "and I shall call again to-morrow, asI have many things yet to ask you. I'll go now and cable home. "

Ellen Lee looked puzzled. 

"Can I be forgetting my own language?" she thought to herself. But shehad resolved to be frank with Donald. Had not he and Dorothy alreadyopened a new life to her? "Cable home?" she repeated. "I do notunderstand. "

"Why, send a cable message, you know--a message by the ocean telegraph. "

"Oh, yes. Bless me! It will be on the other side, too, before one canwink. It is wonderful; and Mr. Donald, --if I may call you so, --whileyou're writing it, would you please, if you wouldn't mind it, send mylove to Miss Dorothy?"

"Good!" cried Donald. "I'll do exactly that. Nothing could be better. Itwill tell the story perfectly. "

Donald, going down the steep flights of stairs soon afterwards, intending to return later, longed to send a fine supper to Ellen Lee andher companion; also beautiful new gowns, furniture, pictures, andflowers. He felt like a fairy prince, ready to shower benefits upon her, but he knew that he must be judicious in his kindness, and considerateof Ellen Lee's feelings. Poor, as she evidently was, she had a proudspirit, and must not be carelessly rewarded. 

 * * * * *

Before another night had passed, Uncle George and the anxious-heartedgirl at Lakewood received this message:

[Illustration: ELLEN LEE SENDS LOVE TO DOROTHY. ]

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See Frontispiece. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MADAME RENÉ TELLS HER STORY. 

ON the following day, when Donald again climbed the many flights ofstairs and knocked at her door, he found Madame René alone. Thepastry-cook advertisement had succeeded: Marie was gone to exercise hertalents in behalf of a little hotel on the Seine, where, as she hadassured her new employer, she would soon distinguish herself by herindustry and sobriety. The almost empty apartment was perfectly neat. Madame René herself had brushed her threadbare gown with care, and, bythe aid of spotless white collar and cuffs, given herself quite aholiday appearance. Very soon she and Donald, seated by the shininglittle window, were talking together in English and like old friends, asindeed they were. The reader shall hear her story in her own words, though not with all the interruptions of conversation under which it wasgiven. 

 * * * * *

"It's no wonder you thought me a Frenchwoman, Mr. Donald. Many havethought the same of me, from the day I grew up. But though I look solike one, and speak the language readily, I was born in England. Istudied French at school, and liked it best of all my lessons. In fact, I studied little else, and even spoke it to myself, for there was noone, excepting the French teacher, who could talk it with me. I neverliked him. He was always pulling my ears and treating me like a childwhen I fancied myself almost a woman. Then I took to reading Frenchstories and romances, and they turned my head. My poor home grew stupidto me, and I took it into my heart to run away and see if I could notget to be a great lady. About that time a French family moved into ourneighborhood, and I was proud to talk with the children and to be toldthat I spoke 'like a native' (just as if I did!), and that, with myblack hair and gray eyes, I looked like a Normandy girl. This settledit. I knew my parents never would consent to my leaving home, but Iresolved to 'play' I was French, and get a situation in some Englishfamily as a French nurse--a real Normandy _bonne_ with a high cap. I wasseventeen then. The _bonne_ in the latest romance I had read became agoverness, and then married a marquis, the eldest son of her employer, and kept her carriage. Why should not some such wonderful thing happento me? You see what a silly, wicked girl I was. 

"Well, I ran away to another town, took the name of Eloise Louvain (myreal name was Elizabeth Luff), and for a time I kept up my part andenjoyed it. The parents who engaged me could not speak French, and asfor the children--dear, what a shame it was!--they got all they knew ofthe language from me. Then I went to live with Madame Lefevre, aParisian. The lady mistrusted my accent when I spoke French to her, andasked me where I was born; but she seemed to like me for all that, and Istayed with her until she was taken ill and was ordered to the baths atAix-la-Chapelle for cure. She did not get well, poor lady, and beforelong I was left in the strange city alone. I had the name of being veryquiet, but I was not so by nature. You see I forced myself to speak onlyin French or broken English, and it was not always easy. At last I sawin a newspaper that a lady in Aix wanted a French maid to go with her toAmerica. Here was my chance. Why, Mr. Donald, if you'll believe me, Iwasn't sure but that if I went I'd in time be the bride of the Presidentof America himself! You needn't laugh. Many's the silly girl--yes, andboy, too, for that matter--who gets ridiculous notions from readingromantic books. Well, I answered the advertisement, and then, sir, Ibecame your mother's maid. By this time my French was so good that shemight not have found me out; but she was so lovely, so sweet, and sharpwithal, that I one day told her the whole truth, and it ended in mywriting a letter home by her advice, sending my parents fifty francs, asking their forgiveness, begging them to consent to my going to Americawith my new lady, and telling them that I would send presents home tothem as often as I could. When the answer came, with love from mymother, and signed 'your affectionate and forgiving father, John Luff, 'I laughed and cried with joy, and forgot that I was a Normandy _bonne_. And a _bonne_ I was in earnest, for my lady had the prettiest pair oftwins any one could imagine, if I do say it to your face, and suchlovely embroidered dresses, more than a yard long, the sleeves tied withthe sweetest little ribbon bows--"

Here Donald interrupted the narrative: "What color were they, please?"he asked, at the same time taking out his note-book. 

"Pink and blue, " was the prompt reply. "Always blue on the boy and pinkon the girl; my lady's orders were very strict on that point. "

"Did--did the other baby--little Delia, you know--wear pink bows?"

"Not she; never anything but white, for her mamma insisted that whitewas the only thing for a baby. "

"What about their hair?" Donald asked, still holding his note-book andlooking at this item: "_Girl's hair, yellow, soft, and curly. Boy'shair, pale-brown, very scanty. _"

"Their hair? Let me see. Why, as I remember, you hadn't any, sir, --atleast, none to speak of; neither had the poor little cousin. But mylittle girl--Miss Dorothy, that is--had the most I ever saw on so younga child; it was golden-yellow, and so curly that it would cling to yourfingers when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap on her, butMrs. Reed had them both in caps from the first. So different from theother lady! She said caps worn all the time were too heating for littleheads, and so her baby never had any; but it wore a loose hood when itwas taken out in the air. I must hurry on with the story. You know theother baby was never at Aix. We met it and its parents at Havre, when mylady went there to take the steamer to America. You twins were not twomonths old. And a sad day that was indeed! For the good gentleman, yourfather--Heaven rest his soul!--died of a fever before you and MissDorothy had been in the world a fortnight. Oh, how my lady and the otherlady cried about it when they came together! I used to feel so sorrywhen I saw them grieving, that, to forget it, I'd take you two babiesout, one on each arm, and walk the street up and down in front of thehotel. I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman, a travellingphotographer; and he, happening to be at Havre, saw me one morning as Iwas walking with the babies, and he invited me to go to his place, hardby, and have my picture taken, for nothing. It was a wilful thing to dowith those two infants, after I had been allowed to walk only a shortdistance by the hotel; but it was a temptation, and I went. I wouldn'tput down the babies though, so he had to take my picture sitting on arock, with one twin on each arm. If you'll believe it, the babies cameout beautifully in the picture, and I was almost as black as a coal. Itwas like a judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think it shocking inme to carry the two helpless twins to a photographer's. "

"But the picture, " said Donald, anxiously, "where is it? Have you ityet?"

"I'll tell you about that soon, " Madame René answered quickly, as ifunwilling to break the thread of her story. "The dear lady was so kindthat I often had a mind to own up and show her the picture, but thethought of that ugly black thing sitting up so stiff and holding thelittle innocents, kept me back. It's well it did, too, --though it's rareany good thing comes out of a wrong, --for if I had, the picture wouldhave gone down with the ship. Well, we sailed a few days after that, andat first the voyage was pleasant enough, though I had to walk the cabinwith the babies, while my lady lay ill in her berth. The sea almostalways affects the gentry, you know. The other lady was hardier, thoughsometimes ailing, and she and her husband tended their baby night andday, never letting it out of their arms when it was awake. Poor littlething, --gone these fifteen years!"

"Are you sure the little cousin was lost?" asked Donald, wondering howshe knew. 

"Why, Mr. Donald, I drew it from your not saying more about the child. Was she ever found? And her mother, the pretty lady, Mrs. Robbins, no, Robertson, --and my lady, your mother? I heard people saying that allwere lost, except those of us who were in our boat. And I never knew tothe contrary until now. Were they saved, sir?"

Donald shook his head sadly. 

"Not one of them saved!" she exclaimed. "Ah me! how terrible! I had asight of Mr. Robertson, with his baby in his arms--just one glimpse inthe dreadful tumult. It all came on so suddenly, --every one screaming atonce, and not a minute to spare. I could not find _my_ lady, yet Ifancied once I heard her screaming for her children; but I ran with themto the first deck, and tried to tie them to something--to a chair, Ithink, so they might float--I was frantic; but I had no rope, only mygown. "

"Yes, yes, " said Donald, longing to produce the pieces of black clothwhich he had brought with him, but fearing to interrupt the narrativejust then. "Please go on. "

"I tore long strips from my gown, but I could not do anything withthem; there was not time. The men were filling the boats, and I rushedto the side of the sinking vessel. No one could help me. I prayed toHeaven, and, screaming to the men in a boat below to catch them, I threwthe babies out over the water. Whether they went into the boat or thewater I could not tell; it seemed to me that some one shouted back. Thenext I knew, I was taken hold of by strong arms and lifted down into oneof the boats. My lady was not there, nor the babies, nor any one of ourparty; all were strangers to me. For days we drifted, meeting no traceof any other boat from the ship, and living as best we could on a fewloaves of bread and a jug of water that one of the sailors had managedto lower into our boat. We were picked up after a time and carried toLiverpool. But I was frightened at the thought of what I haddone--perhaps the twins would have been saved with me if I had notthrown them down. I was afraid that some of their relatives in Americawould rise up and accuse me, you see, sir, and put me in disgrace. I hadacted for the best, but would any one believe me? So when they asked myname, I gave the first I could think of, and said it was 'Ellen Lee, 'and when they wondered at such a strange name for a French girl, as Iappeared to be, I told them one of my parents was English, which wastrue enough. Not having been able to save a bit of my luggage, I wasfain to take a little help from the ship's people. As I had been enteredon the passenger-list only as Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, they weresatisfied when I said I was Ellen Lee. After getting safe ashore I keptmy own counsel and hid myself. To this day I never have breathed a wordabout the shipwreck or my throwing out the babies--no, not to a livingsoul, save yourself, sir. Well, a woman gave me another gown, which wasa help, and I soon found a place with a family in the country, fifteenmiles from Liverpool, to sew for the family and tend the children. Ofcourse I dropped the name of Ellen Lee the moment I left Liverpool, andI hoped to settle down to a peaceful life and faithful service. But Igrew sadder all the time; nothing could cheer me up. Night and day, dayand night, I was haunted by the thought of that awful hour. "

"Yes, awful indeed, " said Donald. "I have often thought of it, and triedto picture the scene. But we will not speak of it now. You must takehappiness in knowing that, instead of losing the babies, you saved them. Only don't forget a single thing about the twins and their mother. Tellme all you can remember about them. Haven't you some little thing thatbelonged to them or to any of the party? A lock of hair or a piece of adress--_anything_ that was theirs? Oh, I hope you have--it is so veryimportant!"

"Ah, yes, sir! I was just coming to that. There's a few things thatbelonged to the babies and the poor mother--and to tell you the truth, they've pressed heavy enough on my conscience all these years. "

Donald, with difficulty, controlled his impatience to see the articles, but he felt that it would be wisest to let Madame have her way. 

"You see how it was: a young man--the same young man who had taken thepicture--came to the ship to bid me good-by, and stood talking apartwith me a minute, while the ladies were looking into their state-roomsand so on; and somehow he caught hold of my little satchel and wasswinging it on his finger when Mrs. Reed sent for me. And before I couldget back to him, the ship was ready to start; all who were notpassengers were put ashore; somebody shouted an order, and the vesselbegan to move. When, at last, I saw him, we were some distance fromshore; and he was standing on the dock looking after me, with my satchelin his hand! We both had forgotten it--and there was nothing for me todo but to sail on to America without it. "

"Were the things in that satchel?" cried Don. "Where is the man? Is heliving?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "No, I shall never see him again in thisworld, " she said. 

Her grief was so evident that Donald, whose disappointment struggledwith his sympathy, felt it would be cruel to press her further. But whenshe dried her eyes and looked as if she were about to go on with thestory, he could not forbear saying, in a tone which was more imploringthan he knew: "Can't you tell me what was in that satchel? Try tothink. "

"Yes, indeed, I can, " she said, plaintively; "there was the picture ofthe babies and me; the baby Dorothy's dress ribbon; my purse and thekey--"

"A key!" cried Donald. "What sort of a key?"

"Oh, a little bit of a key, and gloves, and my best pocket-handkerchief, and--most of all, Mrs. Reed's letter--"

"Mrs. Reed's letter!" echoed Don. "Oh, if I only could have had that andthe picture! But do go on. "

"You make me so nervous, Mr. Donald--indeed you do, begging yourpardon--that I hardly know what I'm saying; but I must tell you how eachof the things had got into my hands. First, the picture was my ownproperty, and I prized it very much, though I had not the courage toshow it to Mrs. Reed; then the pink ribbon was for baby Dorothy. My ladyhad handed it to me at the hotel when we were dressing the twins; and inthe hurry, after cutting off the right lengths to tie up the dear littlesleeves, I crammed the rest into my satchel. "

"And the key? what about the key?"

"Oh, you see, baby Dorothy had worn a chain from the time she was a weekold. It fastened with a key. Mr. Reed himself had put it on her littleneck and locked it the very day before he was taken down, and in thehurry of dressing the babies, as I was telling you, Mrs. Reed let fallthe speck of a key; it was hung upon a bit of pink ribbon, and I pickedit up and clapped it into the satchel, knowing I could give it to her onthe vessel. But the letter--ah, that troubles me most of all. "

She paused a moment and looked at Donald, before beginning again, as iffearing that he would be angry. But he sat watching her, with breathlessinterest. 

"It was a letter to a Mr. George Reed, somewhere in America--youruncle, was it, sir?--and your mother had handed it to me a whole weekbefore to put in the post. It would then have gone across in the steamerbefore ours, but--ah, how can I tell you? I had dropped it into mylittle satchel (it was one that I often carried with me), and forgottenall about it. And, indeed, I never thought of it again till we had beentwo days out, and then I remembered it was in the satchel. I don'twonder you feel badly, sir, indeed I don't; for it should have gone toAmerica, as she intended, --the poor, dear lady!"

"Heaven only knows what trouble it might have spared my uncle; and nowhe can never know, " said Donald, in a broken voice. 

"Never know? please don't say that, Master Donald, for you'll be goingback alive and well, and giving the letter to him with your own hands, Heaven willing. "

Donald could only gasp out, "With my own hands? What! How?"

"Because it's in the satchel to this day. Many a time, after I was safeon shore again, I thought to post it, but I was foolish and cowardly, and feared it might get me into trouble in some way, I didn't know how, but I never had the courage to open it when the poor lady who wrote itwas dead and gone. May be you'll think best to open it yourself now, sir. "

So saying, Madame René stepped across the room, kneeled by an old trunk, and opening it she soon drew forth a small leather hand-bag. 

Handing it to the electrified Donald, she gave a long sigh of relief. 

"There it is, sir, and it's a blessed day that sees it safe in your ownhands!"

Yes, there they were, --the ribbon, the picture, the tiny golden key, andthe letter. Donald, looking a little wild (as Madame René thought), examined them, one after the other and all together, with varyingexpressions of emotion and delight. He was bewildered as to what to dofirst; whether to take out the necklace, that he now always carriedabout with him, and fit the key to its very small lock; or to comparethe group with the babies' photographs which his uncle had intrusted tohim, and which he had intended to show to Madame René during the presentinterview; or to open and read his mother's letter, which the nature ofhis errand to Europe gave him an undoubted right to do. 

The necklace was soon in the hands of Madame René, who regarded it withdeep interest, and begged him to try the key which, she insisted, wouldopen it at once. Donald, eager to comply, made ready to push aside thetop of the clasp, and then he resolved to do no such thing. Uncle Georgeor Dorry should be the first to put the key into that long-silent lock. 

Next came the pictures. Don looked at the four little faces in astartled way, for the resemblance of the babies in the group to those inthe two photographs was evident. The group, which was an ambrotypepicture of Ellen Lee and the twins, was somewhat faded, and it had beentaken at least three weeks before the New York photographs were. But, even allowing for the fact that three weeks make considerable change invery young infants, there were unmistakable points of similarity. In thefirst place, though all the four heads were in baby caps, two chubbylittle faces displayed delicate light locks straying over the foreheadfrom under the caps, while, on the other hand, two longish little facesrose baldly to the very edge of the cap-border. Another point whichEllen Lee discovered was that the bald baby in each picture wore asacque with the fronts rounded at the corners, and the "curly baby, " asDonald called her, displayed in both instances a sacque with squarefronts. Donald, on consulting his uncle's notes, found a mention of thisdifference in the sacques; and when Madame René, without seeing thenotes, told him that both were made of flannel, and that the boy's musthave been blue and the girl's pink, --which points Mr. Reed also had setdown, --Don felt quite sure that the shape of the actual sacques wouldprove on examination to agree with their respective pictures. Up to thatmoment our investigator had, in common with most observers of themasculine gender, held the easy opinion that "all babies look alike;"but circumstances now made him a connoisseur. He even fancied he couldsee a boyish look in both likenesses of his baby-self; but Madame Renéunconsciously subdued his rising pride by remarking innocently that theboy had rather a cross look in the two pictures, but that was "owing tohis being the weakest of the twins at the outset. "

Then came the pink ribbon--and here Donald was helpless. But MadameRené came to the rescue by explaining that if any ribbons were foundupon baby Dorothy they must match these, for their dear mother hadbought new pink ribbon on purpose for her little girl to wear onshipboard, and this was all they had with them, excepting that which wascut off to tie up the sleeves, when the baby was dressed to be carriedon board the ship. And now Madame recalled the fact that after the firstday the twins wore only their pretty little white night-gowns, and that, when it was too warm for their sacques, she used to tie up babyDorothy's sleeves loosely with the bits of pink ribbon, to show thepretty baby arm. 

Next came the letter. Donald's first impulse was to take it to UncleGeorge without breaking the seal; but, on second thoughts, it wasprobable that for some yet unknown reason he ought to know the contentswhile he was still in Europe. It might enable him to follow someimportant clew, and his uncle might regret that he had let theopportunity escape him. But--to open a sealed letter addressed toanother!

Yes, all things considered, he would do so in this instance. His unclehad given him permission to do whatever, in his own judgment, wasnecessary to be done; therefore, despite his just scruples, he decidedthat this was a necessary act. 

Madame René anxiously watched his face as he read. 

"Oh, if you only had posted this, even at any time during the past tenyears!" he exclaimed, when half through the letter. Then, softening, ashe saw her frightened countenance, he added; "But it is all right now, and God bless you! It is a wonderful letter, " said Donald, in a tone ofdeep feeling, as he reached the last line, "and one that Dorothy and Iwill treasure all our lives. Almost every word tends to confirm Dorry'sidentity, and it would complete the evidence if any more were needed. How thankful Uncle George will be when he sees it! But how did you everget all these treasures again, Ellen Lee?"

Madame René started slightly at hearing her old name from Donald's lips, but replied promptly:

"It was by neither more nor less than a miracle. The satchel was givenback to me not very long after I found myself in Europe again. "

"Not by that same young man!" exclaimed Donald, remembering MadameRené's tears. 

"Yes, Mr. Donald, by that same young man who took it on the vessel--thephotographer. "

"Oh!" said Donald. 

"I may as well tell you, " said Madame René, flushing, and yet lookingready to cry again, "that I had his address, and some months after theshipwreck I sent him a line, so that he might find me if he happened topass my way. Well, you may believe I was glad to get the purse and someof the other things, Mr. Donald, but the picture and the key were aworriment to me. The picture did not seem to belong to me any longer. Sometimes I thought I would try to send them to the ship's company, tobe forwarded to the right persons, and so rid my mind of them; but I hadthat foolish, wicked fear that I'd be traced out and punished. Whyshould I, their _bonne_, be saved and they lost? some might say. Often Iwas tempted to destroy these things out of my sight; but each timesomething whispered to me to wait, for some day one who had a right toclaim them would be helped to find me. I little thought that one of thevery babies I threw down over the waves would be that person--"

"That's so, " said Donald, cheerily. 

Hearing a doleful sound from the alley far below them, he opened thewindow and leaned out. A beggar in rags stood there, singing his sadstory in rhyme. 

Verse after verse came out in mournful measure, but changed to alivelier strain when Don threw down a piece of money, which hit theragged shoulder. 

"Well, " said Donald, by way of relief, and again turning to Madame René, "that's a sorry-looking chap. You have all kinds of people here inParis. --But, by the way, you spoke of tearing strips from your gown onthe night of the shipwreck. Do you happen to have that same gown still?"

"No, Master Donald--not the gown. I made it into a skirt and wore it, year after year, for I was obliged to be very saving; and then it wentfor linings and what not. Yonder cape there on the chair is faced withit, and that's ready to be thrown to the beggars. "

"Let _this_ beggar see it, please, " said Donald, blithely; and in amoment he was by the window comparing his samples with the cape-liningas knowingly as a dry-goods buyer. 

"Exactly alike!" he exclaimed. Then with an invisible little shudder, headded: "Hold! let's try the flavor. "

This test was unsatisfactory. But, after explanations, the factremained, to the satisfaction of both, that the "goods" were exactly thesame, but that Madame René's cape-lining having often been washed wasquite divested of its salt. 

Here was another discovery. Donald began to feel himself a rival of thegreat Wogg himself. Strange to say, in further corroboration of thestory of the buxom matron at Liverpool, Madame René actually gave Donalda fragment of the gown that had been given to her so long ago; and itwas identical, in color and pattern, with the piece Mr. Wogg had latelysent him. 

"How in the world did you ever get these pieces, Master Donald?" askedMadame René. 

Whereupon Donald told her all about his Liverpool friend and herrag-bag--much to Madame's delight, for she was thankful to know that thegood woman who had helped her long ago was still alive and happy. 

"And now, " said Donald, pleasantly, "let me hear more of your ownhistory, for it interests me greatly. Where have you lived all theseyears?"

"Well, Master Donald, I went on keeping my own counsel, as I told you, and never saying a word about the wreck or the two dear babies, andliving with Mr. Percival's family as seamstress and nursery governess, under my old French name of Eloise Louvain. I was there till, one day, we said we'd just get married and seek our fortunes together. "

"We!" repeated Donald, astonished and rather shocked; "not you and Mr. Percival?"

"Oh, no, indeed!--I and Edouard René, " she said, in a tone that gave Donto understand that Edouard René was the only man that any girl in hersenses ever could have chosen for a husband. 

"What! The photographer?"

"Yes, Mr. Donald, the photographer. Well, we married, and how many nicethings they gave me--and they were not rich folk, either!"

"They? Who, Madame René?"

"Why, Mrs. Percival and the children--gowns and aprons and pretty thingsthat any young wife might be proud to have. She had married a finegentleman, but she had been a poor girl. Her little boy was named afterhis grandfather, and it made such a funny mixture, --James Wogg Percival;but we always called him Jamie. "

"Wogg!" exclaimed Don. "I know a James Wogg--a London detective--"

"Oh, that's the son, sir, Mrs. Percival's brother; he's a detective, anda pretty sharp one, but not sharp enough for me. "

She said this with such a confident little toss of her head that Don, much interested, asked what she meant. 

"Why, you see, Mr. Wogg often came to see his sister, Mrs. Percival, asI think, to borrow money of her; and he was always telling of thewonderful things he did, and how nothing could escape him, and howstupidly other detectives did their work. And one day, when I was in theroom, he actually told how some people were looking for one Ellen Lee, anursemaid who had been saved from shipwreck, and how one of thesurvivors was moving heaven and earth to find her, but hadn't succeeded;and how, if the case had been given to him, he would have done thus andso--for she never could have escaped _him_. And there I was almost underhis very nose!--yes, then and many a time after!"

"It's the funniest thing I ever heard!" cried Donald, enjoying the jokeimmensely, and convulsed to think of Mr. Wogg's disgust when he shouldlearn these simple facts. 

"Poor old Wogg!" he said. "It will almost kill him. "

"I tell you, Mr. Donald, " continued Madame René, earnestly, though shehad laughed with him, "I listened then for every word that man mightsay. I longed to ask questions, but I did not dare. I heard enough, though, to know they were looking for me, and it frightened medreadfully. 

"Well, as soon as we were married--Edouard and I--we went to my oldhome, and I made my peace with my poor old parents--Heaven bepraised!--and comforted their last days. Then we went about throughFrench, Swiss, and German towns, taking pictures. I helped Edouard withthe work, and my English and French served us in many ways. But we foundit hard getting a living, and at last my poor man sickened. I felt thatnothing would help him but the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle; and so did he. We managed to work our way there, and once safe at Aix, I foundemployment as a _doucheuse_ in the baths. "

"What is that, please?" asked Don. 

"The _doucheuse_ is the bath-woman who attends specially to ladies. Myearnings enabled my poor husband to stay and take the waters; and whenhe grow better, as he did, he got a situation with a photographer in thetown. But it was only for a while. He sickened again--Heaven rest andbless his precious soul!--and soon passed away like a little child. Icouldn't bear Aix then, and so I went with a family to Paris, andfinally became a visiting dressmaker. My poor husband always called meElise; and so Madame Elise René could go where she pleased without anyfear of the detectives finding her. At last, only the other day, Ipicked up a French newspaper, and there I chanced to see your noticeabout Ellen Lee, and I answered it. "

"Bless you for that!" said Donald, heartily. "But had you never seen anyother? We advertised often for Ellen Lee in the London and Liverpoolpapers. "

"No, I never saw one, sir; and, to tell the truth, I hated to rememberthat I had ever been called Ellen Lee, for it brought back the thoughtof that awful night--and the poor little babes that I thought I hadkilled. If the notice in the paper had not said that I saved theirlives, you never would have heard from me, Mr. Donald. That made mehappier than I ever had been in all my life--mostly for the babies'sake, though it seemed to lift a load of trouble off my mind. "

Several times during the long interview with Elise René, Donald foundhimself wondering how he could manage, without hurting her pride, togive her the money which she evidently needed. For she was no pauper, and her bright, dark eyes showed that time and trouble had not by anymeans quenched her spirit. The idea of receiving charity would shockher, he knew; but an inspiration came to him. He would not reward herhimself, but he would act for Dorothy. 

"Madame René, " he said, with some hesitation, "if my sister had known Iwas coming here to talk face to face with the friend who had saved herlife, I know what she would have done: she would have sent you hergrateful love and--and something to remember her by; something as shewould say, 'perfectly lovely. ' I know she would. "

Madame had already begun to frown, on principle, but the thought ofDorry softened her, as Donald went on: "I know she would, but I don'tknow what to do about it. I'd buy exactly the wrong article, if I weretrying to select. The fact is, you'll have to buy it yourself. "

With these words, Donald handed Elise René a roll of bank-notes. 

"Oh, Mr. Donald!" she exclaimed, with much emotion, "I can't takethis--indeed I cannot!"

"Oh, Madame René, but indeed you can, " he retorted, laughing. "And now, "he added hastily (to prevent her from protesting any longer), "I am notgoing to inflict myself upon you for the entire day. You must be verytired; and, besides, after you are rested, we must decide upon the nextthing to be done. I have cabled to my uncle, and there is no doubt thathe will send word for you to come with me at once to America. Now, surely, you'll go? Please say that you will. I'll wait a week or two, for you. "

Elise hesitated. 

"It would be a great joy, " she said, "to go to America and to seelittle Dorothy. She is a great deal more to me--and so are you, Mr. Donald--than one would think; for, though you were both too young to bevery interesting when I was your _bonne_, I have thought and dreamed sooften of you in all these long years, and of what you both might havelived to be if I had not thrown you away from me that night, that I--"her eyes filled with tears. 

"Yes, indeed; I know you take an interest in us both, " was his cordialreply. "And it makes me wish that you were safe with us in America, where you would never see trouble nor suffer hardship any more. Say youwill go. "

"Could I work?" she said eagerly. "Could I sew, make dresses, doanything to be useful to Miss Dorothy? My ambition of late has been togo back to England and set up for a dressmaker, and some day have alarge place, with girls to help me; but that would be impossible--lifeis so hard for poor folk here in Europe. I feel as if I would doanything to see Miss Dorothy. "

"But you can have America, and Miss Dorothy, and the dressmakingestablishment, or whatever you please, " Don pursued with enthusiasm;"only be ready to sail by an early steamer. And since you go for oursakes, and to satisfy my uncle, you must let us pay all the cost andever so much more. Think what joy you give us all in proving, without adoubt, that Dorothy is--Dorothy. "

"I will go, " she said. 

 * * * * *

That same day Donald again flew up the long flight of stairs in the RueSoudière. He had, meantime, secured a room in some hotel recommended tohim by M. Bajeau, and already had received a letter there that hadfilled him with pleasant expectation. It was this letter that now senthim back to ask Madame René if he might call that evening and bring afriend. 

"A friend?" Madame René looked troubled. Donald, to her, was her own boyalmost; but a stranger!--that would be quite different. She glancedanxiously around, first at the shabby apartment, and then at her ownwell-worn gown--but Mr. Donald, she thought, would know what was best todo. So, with a little Frenchy shrug of her shoulders, and a gesture ofresignation, she said, "Oh, certainly"--and that she would be muchpleased. 

The evening visit was a success in every way, excepting one. The _bonne_of former days did not at first recognize the "friend, " M. Bajeau, though at the first sight he was certain that this tall, comely womanwas the veritable person who had come with Mrs. Reed and the pink-facedtwins into his little shop. But she remembered the visit perfectly, andnearly all that happened on that day. She recalled, too, that Mrs. Reedhad intended to have the baby's full name, Dorothy, engraved upon theclasp, and that on account of the smallness of the space the initials, D. R. , were decided upon. Still it was annoying to M. Bajeau, andconsequently rather embarrassing to Donald, that the woman did notpromptly recognize him as the same jeweller. 

The simple-hearted and somewhat vain old gentleman, who felt that thiswould be a very important link in the chain of evidence, had recognizedMadame René; and why could she not return the compliment?

Donald, by way of relieving the awkwardness, remarked during a ratherstiff moment that it was unusually warm, and begged leave to open thedoor. At this, Monsieur, hinting delicately that a draught would in timekill an angel, produced a skull-cap, which he deftly placed upon hishead; and no sooner was this change effected than Madame René grewradiant, clasped her hands in honest rapture, and declared that shewould now recognize M. Bajeau among a million as the very gentleman whoengraved that blessed baby's dear little initials upon the clasp!

CHAPTER XXXV. 

A DAY OF JOY. 

WHILE the great ship that bears Donald and Madame René to America isplowing its way across the ocean, we who are on dry land may look intothe home at Lakewood. 

Uncle George and the two girls have just come in from a twilight walk;the glow of exercise is on their faces, and they are merry, not becauseanything funny has been seen or said, but because their hearts are fullof joy. Donald is coming home. 

Down stairs in the housekeeper's pleasant sitting-room are a pair of oldfriends, and if you could open the door without being seen you wouldhear two familiar voices. 

"Where's the use, " Mr. Jack is saying confidentially, "in MasterDonald's bein' away so long? The place ain't natteral, --nothing'snatteral without that boy. And there's Miss Dorothy, the trimmest littlecraft that ever was; here she's been tossin' about and draggin' anchor, so to speak, all because he ain't here alongside. He's gone to find outfor certain, is he? Where's the use in findin' out? One clipper's asgood as another if both are sound in the hull and full-rigged. To mymind the capt'n'd better took what the Lord's giv' him, and be thankfulaccordin'. You can't change the bottom o' the sea by continyully takin'soundin's. I tell you, messmate--"

He stops short as Lydia raises a warning finger, --

"You're forgetting again, Mr. Jack!" she pleads, "and after all thegrammar me and Miss Dorry have taught you. Besides, you might be just aselegant in talking to me as to the family. "

"Eleganter, Mistress Blum--eleganter, " is the emphatic response; "butnot when a chap's troubled--'t ain't in the order o' things. A covecan't pray grammatic and expect to be heard, can he? But, as I wassayin', there's been stormy times off the coast for the past three days. That boy ought t' have been kept at home. Gone to find out? Humph!Where's the use? S'pose when them two mites was throwed out from thesinkin' ship I'd 'a' waited to find out which babies they were; no, Iketched 'em fur what they was. Where's the use findin' out? There_ain't_ no use in it. I'm an old sailor, but somehow I'm skeery as alass to-night. I've kind o' lost my moorin's. "

"Lost what, Mr. Jack?" said Lydia, with a start. 

"My moorin's. It seems to me somehow's that lad'll never come to land. "

"Mercy on us, Jack!" cried Lydia, in dismay. "What on earth makes yousay a thing like that?"

"'Cos I'm lonesome. I'm upset, " said Jack, rising gloomily, "an' that'sall there is about it. An' there's that wall-eyed McSwiver--"

"Mr. Jack, " exclaimed Lydia, suddenly, "you're not talking plain andhonest with me. There's something else on your mind. "

"An' so there is, Mistress Lydia; an' I may as well out with it. Ken youpictur' to yourself a craft tossed about on the sea, with no cap'ain norcompass nor steerin' gear nor nothin', --the whole thing clean adrift, an' no anchor to hold it from a-driftin' furder? Well, I'm that craft. Iwant some one to tow me into smooth waters, and then sail alongsideallers--somebody kind and sensible and good. Now do you take the idee?"

[Illustration]

Lydia thought she did, but she was not quite sure; and as we cannot waitto hear the thrilling conversation that followed, we will steal upstairs again, to hear the pleasant "good-night" often repeated whileUncle, at the study door, waves his hand blithely to the prettyprocession of two mounting to the sleeping-room above. 

Later, while the girls are whispering together in Dorry's cosey corner, Mr. Reed writes the long letter to Eben Slade, which tells him that hemay now come on with "legal actions" and his threats of exposure; thatMr. George is ready to meet him in any court of law, and that his proofsare ready. Then at the last follows a magnanimous offer of help, whichthe baffled man will be glad to accept as he sneaks away to his Westernhome--there to lead, let us hope, a less unworthy life than of old. 

The letter is sealed. Now the lights are out. Mr. Jack, tranquil andhappy, having at last made Lydia "take the idee" to his satisfaction, has tip-toed his way to his bachelor room above the stable, and Watchsettles himself upon the wide piazza to spend the pleasant midsummernight out of doors. 

Sleep well, good old Watch! To-morrow will be a busy day for you. Veryearly, a trim young man will come with a message from the telegraphoffice, and you will have to bark and howl as he approaches, and slowlysubside when Dorothy rushes down to receive the telegram, which tells ofa certain ship being sighted at daylight off Sandy Hook. Then affairs atthe stable will occupy you. Jack, getting out the carriage in a hurry, never heeding your growls and caresses, will drive to the house, and(while you are wildly threading your way between wheels and the horses'legs) Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy, radiant with expectation, willenter the vehicle, Jack will mount to the box, and off they will startfor the railway station!

Lydia--happy soul!--will call "Come back, Watch!" and then, resting onthe piazza again, you may amuse yourself with the flies that try tosettle on your nose, or dream of a wild race with your young master, while she makes the house fairly shine for the welcoming that is soon tobe. 

 * * * * *

. . . Wake up, old Watch! "To-morrow" is here. Even now Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy are on the Express-train for New York. It shakes andtrembles with excess of speed, yet it is all too slow to satisfy thehappy three who are going at last to see their ship come in. 

Lydia Blum, are you aware that this is the twentieth time that you have"just run up and put the finishin' touch to Mr. Donald's room"? Ah, howpleased he will be when he learns that, after your wedding, you and Jackare to continue living on the place just the same, excepting that youare to have a little cottage of your own!

And you, Charity Danby, --so trim, rosy, and joyful for Dorothy'ssake, --don't you see how you are hindering Kassy with your nosegays andgarlands and vines trailing all through the house?

And, Jack, how can you wait till it is time to drive to the train but byworking like mad in the stables, in the carriage-house, in thegymnasium, --anywhere, everywhere, --so that the boy will be all the moredelighted when he comes?

Hark, now, Liddy! Don't you hear something? No, that was only thevillage boys shouting out on the lake! Dust away, dear woman! And you, Charity, throw wide the study-blinds, and brush that stray twig from thestudy-table before the young mistress of the house comes back! Ah, little you dream of the joy that will thrill those very walls to-nightwhen under Dot's own fingers the clasp of a quaint old necklace shallyield to the touch of a tiny key, and Uncle George and his precious girlshall laugh and cry together!

Ready, every one! No false alarm this time. Lydia, Kassy, and Norah, Charity and all the Danbys, are waving handkerchiefs and hats as twocarriages come rolling up through the sunset light that floods theavenue. 

Hurrah! Bark your loudest now, old Watch! Jack feels like dancing ahornpipe on his box. Ed Tyler, and his father, and Josie Manning jumpout of one carriage; Uncle George, leaping like a boy from the other, helps a tall, bright-eyed woman, dressed in black, to alight; and then, amid a chorus of cheers and barking, and joyous cries of welcome, happiest of the happy, follow the brother and sister--DONALD andDOROTHY!

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Page 221, "compelment" changed to "compliment" (It was a compliment)

Page 286, a parenthetical statement begins but no ending was printed. This was retained. ((though you know, Don, I cannot)

Page 354, "is it" changed to "it is" (it is all too slow)