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

smile.

"From the first I opposed the marriage," continued Mr. Reed; "but the

poor girl, reasonable in everything else, would listen neither to

argument nor to appeal. She was sure that in time we would know him and

believe in him as she did. I would not even attend the wedding, which

took place at her friend's house; though, by the terms of my father's

will, 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 her

unconditionally one-third of the family estate on her wedding-day. The

result was as we had feared. They sailed immediately for England, and

there, he entered into various wild speculations, and in less than two

years 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 vicious

spaniel, "my brother had married, and had gone with his bride to Europe,

intending to remain two years. In a twelvemonth his wife became the

mother of twins, a boy and a girl, and before two weeks had passed their

father was stricken with fever, and died. News then came to me, not only

of my brother's death, but also that my sister Kate had become

destitute, and had been too proud to let us know of her misfortunes, and

finally, that at the time the letter was written, she and her husband,

with their baby daughter, then only three weeks old, were living solely

on 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. But

he at least could accompany the party to America, and I sent word for

both families to come as soon as they could safely bring the three

babies; and charged Mr. Robertson to leave nothing undone which could

tend to their comfort and safety on the voyage.

"They sailed--" Here Mr. Reed paused, bracing himself for the remainder

of the recital, which he had resolved should be complete and full. He

had at hand legal papers proving that his adopted sister Kate, at the

time of her marriage, had received her rightful third of his father's

estate; but he did not feel in any way compelled to show these to his

unpleasant visitor.

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

gain.

"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 me

documents!"

"There was no will," said Mr. Reed. "As for documents,"--here he arose,

walked to a high, old-fashioned secretary, unlocked a drawer, and

produced two letters,--"you may recognize these!" and he unfolded the

yellow, time-worn sheets before Mr. Slade's astonished eyes--astonished,

not that they were his own letters, betraying his full knowledge of his

sister's loss of property, but that Mr. Reed should be able to produce

them after all these fourteen years.

"See here!" said that gentleman, showing him one of the letters, and

pointing to these heartless words in Slade's own handwriting: "_It's

terrible news; for now that Kate's money is gone, as well as herself, I

know there's nothing more to look for in that quarter._"

Slade scrutinized the passage with well-feigned curiosity. But he had

his revenge ready.

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

interest you."

Was it magic? Another yellow letter, very much soiled and worn, appeared

to 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 the

letter.

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 folding

the 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 nor

hair of the child if it had lived. I wish it had; she'd 'a' been handy

about the house by this time, and my wife, whose temper is none of the

best, would have had some one to scold besides me, as well as some one

to do the chores. What have you got belonging to the child? What's hers

is mine. Where's the baby-clothes,--the things that Robertson's people

must have sent on afterward from England?"

"There was nothing sent on afterward," replied Mr. Reed, with a stunned

look; but in an instant, he turned his eyes full upon Slade, causing the

miserable creature to cringe before him:

"If you had the soul of a man, I could wish for your sake that something

belonging to the lost baby had been saved; but there was nothing. My

sister was not herself when she wrote that letter. She was frantic with

grief and trouble, else she would have known that I would forgive and

cherish her. And now, sir, if you are satisfied, I bid you good

evening!"

"I am _not_ satisfied," said Eben doggedly. "There's more to be settled

yet. Where is the man who saw the shipwreck?"

Mr. Reed opened the window. Seizing something that hung there, he blew a

shrill whistle, then lowered the sash and sat down.

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

opened.

"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 sat

waiting.

The entrance of the sailor-coachman had a peculiar effect upon Eben

Slade. It gave him a drowsy appearance. Some men have that look when

they are specially on their guard.

"Did you want me, Capt'n?" asked Jack, after standing a few seconds and

receiving 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 to

Slade 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 his

own way, Eben Slade would get but little information out of him. He had

despised the fellow as a "skulker," from the moment he had seen him

sneaking 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 becoming

deference, "you are the person who, according to Mr. Reed, rescued the

twins? 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 from

the 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 resolved

to conciliate the man, if possible, by letting him have his own way for

a 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 of

the 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 of

pathetic appeal into his voice: "Why, Capt'n, look a' here! It's hard

seein' any diff'rence between young babbies in broad sunlight and a

smooth 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 be

over intimate in the cabins; but I knew one lady aboard, if I do say

it."

"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 call

bein' acquainted another might call otherwise," said Jack, with a

scrape, and a light touch at his forelock.

"Right!" pursued Eben Slade. "Now did you happen to be 'acquainted, or

otherwise,' 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 to

understand?" asked Slade, sharply.

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

"Ah! They were always together, then; now we're getting it. Could you

tell which was the mother of the twins?"

"_Could_ I tell which was the mother of the twins? I didn't know half

the passengers from t'other half, let alone knowin' which babby

belonged to which mother. Why, man, boxin' the compass back'ard would be

nothin' compared to that. All I can tell you is we was 'most all hove

out into the sea, high and low together."

"I'd have you hove out again if you were my man, or make you keep a

civiller tongue in your head," was Eben's savage retort. "Now, sir, will

you or will you not tell me how you saved the two babies, and what

became of the other one?"

"I will not," answered Jack, doggedly; then seeing that Mr. George was

about 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 put

into 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 were

letting her and the rest down into the boat; and the way she quieted

after,--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 on

humoring the fellow?--but Mr. Reed's expressive nod compelled him to

reply:

"The other mother? I don't know where she was. One instant we men was

all obeyin' orders; the next, everything was wild. It was dark night,

women screamin', men shoutin', the ship sinkin', some hollerin' she was

afire, and every one savin' himself an' others as best he could. Perhaps

you ain't aware that folks don't gen'rally go and get out the log at

such times and set down their obserwations for future ref'rence."

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

in the boat?"

"Well, if ever I met the like of land lubbers! Was he with the lady in

the boat? Did I see him? Why, man, it warn't a pleasure-party. Out of

all that shipload, barely twenty men and wimmen ever saw the sun rise

again; and Mr. Robertson,--no, nor his wife, nor the babby, nor t'other

poor lady,--warn't amongst them, as the master here can tell you; and

none on 'em couldn't make us any the wiser about who the babbies

belonged to. An' their mothers wasn't hardly ever on deck; 'most like

they 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 till

daylight. 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 with

you outside."

"Jest my idee!" said Jack, with alacrity, holding wide the door. "No

place like the open sea for a collision." Again his glance questioned

Mr. Reed. He was in the habit of studying that face, very much as in

times past he had studied the sky to learn the weather. But the stern

answer he found there, this time, disappointed him, and "saved Eben

Slade from bein' stove in an' set beam-end in less than no time," as

Jack elegantly remarked to himself, while Mr. George rose and bade his

visitor a stiff "good-evening."

CHAPTER XII.

A DAY IN NEW YORK.

ON the next morning, when Donald and Dorothy, very much to their

surprise, were advised by their uncle not to go to the Danbys' for the

present, 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 confinement

very long, so you must try to bear your captivity with fortitude. There

are worse things, Dot, than being obliged to stay within one's own

domain for a few days."

"I know it, Uncle!" said Dorry; then, resolving to be brave and

cheerful, she added, with a mischievous laugh: "Wouldn't it be a good

plan to tether us in the lot, with Don's pony?"

"Excellent!" replied Uncle. "But, by the way, we need not tether you

quite yet. I have business in the city to-morrow, and if you and Donald

say yes, it shall be a party of three."

"Oh, indeed we say yes," cried the now happy Dorry. "Shall you be there

all 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. "Only

think, Liddy! Donald and I are to be all day in New York. Oh, we'll

have such a nice time! and I'll buy you the prettiest white apron you

ever wore in all your life!"

* * * * *

The new morning, skipping across the sparkling lake, climbed up to

Dorry's window and wakened her with its sunny touch.

"Get up, Don," called Dorry, at the same time tapping briskly on her

wall. "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 that

her sisterly efforts to rouse him had not been in vain.

Uncle George was fond of giving pleasant surprises; so, when later they

all three were comfortably settled in the rail-car, he remarked

carelessly 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 make

Dr. 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 the

friendly racket of the train, and finally it was decided to present to

the good tutor a nice watch, with his name and "From his grateful

pupils, Donald and Dorothy," engraved on the inside of the case. Donald

had proposed a seal-ring, but Mr. Reed said heartily that while they

were about it they might as well make it a watch; and Dorry, in her

delight, came near jumping up and hugging her uncle before all the

passengers. It is true, she afterwards expressed a wish that they could

give Dr. Lane the price of the watch instead; but, finally, they agreed

that a gift of money might hurt his feelings, and that after so many

months of faithful service some sort of souvenir would be a more fitting

token of respect and affection. Yes, all things considered, a watch

would be best.

"He hasn't any at all, you know," said Dorry, earnestly, looking from

one to the other, "and it must be an awful--I mean a _great_--inconvenience

to him; especially now, when he'll have to be taking medicines every two

hours or so, poor man."

Donald smiled; the remark was so like Dorry! But he looked into her

grave yet bright young face, with his heart brimful of love for her.

* * * * *

The day in town passed off pleasantly indeed. As Uncle George's business

took him to a banker's in Wall Street, the D's enjoyed a walk through

that wonderful thoroughfare, where fortunes are said to come and go in

an hour, and where every one, in every crowded room of every crowded

building, 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, were

left behind. Then there were fresh sights to be seen, purchases to be

made, and above all, the watch to be selected,--to say nothing of a

grand luncheon at Delmonico's, where, under their busy appetites,

dainties with Italian and French names became purely American in an

incredibly 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 questions

they asked, the better he liked it, and the more sure he became that his

Don and Dot were the brightest, most intelligent pair of young folk

under the sun. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the holiday as heartily as

they did, excepting when Dorothy, toward the latter part of the

afternoon, surprised him with a blank refusal to go nearly three hundred

feet above the street.

You shall hear all about it:

They were homeward bound,--that is to say, they were on their way to the

down-town ferry-boat that would carry them to the railroad

station,--when Donald suddenly proposed that they should stay over till

a later train.

"And suppose we walk on down to Wall Street, Uncle," he continued, "and

go into Trinity Church. There's a magnificent view from the spire."

"Yes," was his uncle's rather frightened comment. "But the spire is more

than two hundred and eighty feet high. What are you going to do about

that?"

"Why, climb up, sir, of course. You know there's a good stairway nearly

to 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 is

stupendous too."

"Yes, but you can look down and see the city, and the harbor, and all

the shipping, and the East River, and everything. There's an hour to

spare yet. We can take it easy. What say you, Uncle?"

"Well, I say yes," said Uncle, with forced heartiness, for he dearly

loved to oblige the twins.

Then they turned to Dorry, though it seemed hardly necessary; she always

was ready for an adventure. To their surprise, she responded

emphatically:

"And _I_ say, please let me wait somewhere till Uncle and you come down

again. 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 always

feel 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 the

ferry, silently, with compressed lips and a flushed countenance; he did

not even mention the steeple project again.

Meantime the noble old church on Broadway stood calmly overlooking the

bustle and hurry of Wall Street, where the "money, money, money" chorus

goes on day after day, ceasing only on Sundays and holidays, and when

the 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 the

way, were taking very short steps to keep pace with Dorry. "But I can't

help 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 that

feeling?"

"What feeling, Dorothy?"

How sternly Mr. Reed said it! Surely he could not blame the poor girl

for asking so natural a question as that? No. But the incident had

saddened him strangely, and he was unconscious of the severity of his

tone, until Dorothy's hesitating manner changed the current of his

thoughts.

"Why--why, the--" she began, adding: "Oh, it doesn't matter, Uncle. I

suppose I am foolish to ask such questions. But Don is ever so much

steadier-headed than I am--aren't you, Don? I do believe he'd like to

stand on the top of that telegraph-pole, if he could get there."

"There's no 'if' about that," said Donald, jokingly. "It's a mere

question of time. Provided a fellow can climb a pole at all, a little

more height makes no difference. Why, if I hadn't on my crack suit, I'd

ask 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'. Five

cents apiece. That's ten cents fine for you, sir! Well, we ought to be

thankful he hasn't on his old clothes, Uncle! Ahem! The 'crack' would be

in 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 other

with many laughing sallies, feeling confident that their uncle enjoyed

it exceedingly.

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

"Strange! Every day something new--something that reminds me of poor

Kate. Now it's this dread of standing on high places; what will it be

to-morrow? And yet, as the child herself intimates, many other persons

have the same feeling. Now I think upon it, it's the commonest thing in

the world."

CHAPTER XIII.

DONALD AND DOROTHY ENTERTAIN FANDY.

IN a few days after the visit to town, Mr. Reed received a letter, very

dingy on the outside and very remarkable within. It was brought by one

of 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 folded

the missive. Then, conscience-smitten at his indifference to the Danby

interests, and resolved that, in the end, Mr. Danby should be no loser

by "the boarder," he looked toward Master Danby. That young gentleman,

dressed in a made-over Sunday suit, still stood hat in hand in the

library doorway.

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

"No, sir," repeated Fandy, rapidly, and with a solemn countenance. "His

thick boot saved him. The axe fell and cut through down to his skin, and

it bled a sight, and 'Mandy 'most fainted, and Ma bandaged it up so

tight he hollered a bad word."

"What?"

"Yes, sir. He said 'blazes!' And Ma said for him not to forget hisself

if he _was_ hurt, and he said he wouldn't again. And Ma devised him, as

Sunday was comin' so soon, to take Saturday, and so give his foot two

days 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 of

swearin' words, and Ma's breaking them of it. Ma's very partic'lar."

"That's right," said Mr. Reed. "So, Master Francis Ferdinand," referring

to the letter, "the boarder told you that he was a relation of mine, did

he?"

"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. "You

probably 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 the

first turn; then rapidly and somewhat noisily across the great square

hall 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 found

himself 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 at

him with green eyes. Everything up there was as still as death; grim

shadows lurked in the recesses and far corners; the window was shaded by

some limp garments hanging near it, and now stirring drearily Fandy

could chase angry cattle and frighten dogs away from his little sisters,

but lonely garrets were quite another matter. Almost any dreadful object

could stalk out from behind things in a lonely garret! The boy looked

about him in an awe-struck way for an instant, then tore, at break-neck

speed, down the stairs, into the broad hall, where Donald, armed like a

knight, or so it seemed to the child, met him with a hearty, "Ho, is

that you, Fandy Danby? Thought I heard somebody falling. Come right into

my room. Dorry and I are practising."

"Praxin' what?" panted the relieved Fandy, hurrying in as he spoke, and

looking about him with a delighted, "Oh my!"

Dorothy was a pretty girl at any time, but she certainly looked very

pretty indeed as she turned toward the visitor--her bright hair tumbled,

her face flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkling merrily. She held a

fencing-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 me

to fence, and I can't half see how he does it, because I have to wear

the mask. Here, let me put it on you--that's a good boy," and she suited

the action to the word, laughing at the astonished little face which

Fandy displayed through the wire network.

"Now, take the foil!--No, no. In your right hand, so." Then, addressing

Donald, she added: "Now he's ready! Fall to, young man!"

"Yes! fall to-o!" shouted Fandy, striking an attitude and catching the

spirit of the moment, like the quick little fellow he was. "Fall to-o!"

Donald laughingly parried the small child's valiant but unscientific

thrusts, while Dorry looked on in great satisfaction, sure that she now

could "catch the idea" perfectly.

No armed chieftain at the head of his clan ever appeared more

desperately 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 little

hand, striking right and left regardless of consequences, and leaping

from the ground when making a thrust at his opponent's heart, or

savagely attempting to rival the hero of Chevy Chase who struck off his

enemy's legs, is no mean foe. Donald was a capital fencer; and, well

skilled in the tricks of the art, he had a parry for every known thrust.

But Fandy's thrusts were unknown. Nothing more original or unexpected

could be conceived; and every time Dorry cried "foul!" he redoubled his

strokes, taking the word as a sort of applause. For a while, Donald

laughed so much that he scarcely could defend himself; but, whenever he

found that he was growing short of breath, he would be in earnest just

long enough to astonish his belligerent foe. At the moment when that

lively young duellist flattered himself that he was doing wonders, and

pressing the enemy hard, Donald would stop laughing for a second, make a

single sudden pass toward Fandy, with a quick turn of his wrist, and,

presto! the eight-year-old's foil, much to his amazement, would leave

his hand as if by magic, and go spinning across the floor. But Fandy,

utterly unconscious that this unaccountable accident was a stroke of art

on 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, he

would renew the attack with all his little might.

At last, Donald, wearying of the sport, relieved himself of his mask and

consulted his watch, a massive but trusty silver affair, which had been

worn 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 young

champion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foil

with a sterner grip, he turned to Donald.

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

KILLED?"

"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushing to the door and standing

with her back against it. "Would you do such a thing as that?"

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

tigers?"

"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 her

position.

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

his rescue.

"I don't believe in hurtin' tame animals," said he. "It's naughty," and

the foil and mask were laid carefully upon the table.

"Who taught you to fight with these things?" he asked Donald in an

off-hand way, as though he and Don were about equal in skill, with the

great difference that his own power came to him by nature, while

Donald's undoubtedly was the result of severe teaching.

"Professor Valerio."

"Oh, did he? I've heard 'Manda talk about _him_. She says he's

the--the--somethingest man in the village. I forget now what she called

him. What's those things?" Here the visitor pointed to Don's

boxing-gloves.

At any other time Don would have taken them from the wall and explained

their use, but it was nearly three o'clock, and this was his

fencing-lesson day. So he merely said, "They're boxing-gloves."

"Do you _wear_ 'em?" asked Fandy, looking in a puzzled way, first at the

huge 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 you

think Uncle will let you go? We're prisoners, you know."

"Of course he will," replied Donald, taking his hat (he had a mask and

foil at the professor's) and preparing to start. "I'm to call for Ed

Tyler at three. We'll have rare times to-day; two fellows from town are

to be there,--prime fencers, both of them,--and we are to have a fencing

match."

[Illustration: THE FENCING-MASTER.]

"You'll win," said Dorry. "You always do. Ed Tyler says you are the

finest fencer he ever saw, excepting Professor Valerio, and he says you

beat even the professor sometimes."

"Nonsense!" said Donald, severely, though his face betrayed his

pleasure. "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's

a standing argument against round shoulders."

Dorry had taken a photograph from the table, and had been talking partly

to it and partly to Donald. As she laid the picture down again, Fandy

stepped 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 picture

in great admiration. "My, wouldn't I like to fight _him_!"

"There goes Don," said Dorothy, who by this time was looking out of the

window; "Uncle must have consented."

"Consented!" echoed Fandy. "Why, can't Donald go out 'thout askin'? Ben

can, and Dan David, too; so can 'Mandy and----Hello, Charity, I'm

a-comin'."

This last remark was shouted through the open window, where Dorothy

stood 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 young

pupils, as well as by their beautiful gift, bade farewell to Mr. Reed

and the D's, with repeated promises to write in due time and tell them

how he liked the sunny South, and how it fared with him.

"I shall like it, I know," he assured them, "and the climate will make

me strong and well. Good-by once more, for you see" (here he made a

playful show of consulting his watch as he took it proudly from his

vest-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 more

good-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 to

the station.

Upon their return, they found their uncle and Liddy engaged in

consultation.

The evening came on with change of wind, a dull gray sky and all the

unwelcome signs of a long storm.

"I have been thinking," remarked Mr. Reed, while he and the D's were

waiting for supper, "that it would be a good idea to have a little fun

between 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 of

that awful, but as yet unknown personage, the new tutor."

"Oh, yes, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands, "I'm ready for

anything. But then," she added, half-playfully, "you forget we're

prisoners, like the princes in the Tower!"

"Not prisoners at all now," he exclaimed, "unless the storm should prove

your jailer. Circumstances have changed; and you are free as air."

"Let me see, what shall we have," he went on, taking no notice of the

D's' surprise at this happy turn of affairs, and speaking slowly and

deliberately--just as if he had not settled that matter with Liddy some

days 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 with

pretended astonishment. "Well, upon my word!"

It did not occur to him to mention that the idea of a house-picnic was

purely an invention of his own; nor did he suspect that it was one which

could have found favor only in the brain of a doting and rich bachelor

uncle.

"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 house

thrown open from ten in the morning till ten at night. It means fun in

the garret, music and games in the parlor, story-telling in odd corners,

candy-pulling in the kitchen, sliding-curtains, tinkling bells, and

funny performances in the library; it means almost any right thing

within bounds that you and about thirty other youngsters choose to make

it, with the house thrown open to you for the day."

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

eyes.

"Oh, yes, a run or two when you wish, for fresh air's sake; but from

present 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 covered

wagon and go for the company, rain or not, while Don and you and I plan

the fun. We'll try all sorts of queer out-of-the-way things. Good for

the house-picnic!"

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

enthusiastic as Dorry.

"Oh, Uncle," she went on, "you are too lovely! How _did_ you happen to

think 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 been

rather good and patient under the persecutions of their cruel Uncle

Gloucester, and so Liddy and I decided they should have a little frolic

by way of a change."

"Has _he_ gone from the neighborhood, I wonder?" thought Donald (strange

to 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 glad

to 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 all

the Danbys; may we, Uncle? It would be such a treat to them; you know

they never have an opportunity to go to a party."

"Just as you please, my girl; but will not ten of them be rather a large

proportion 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 delightful

subject of house-picnics; but Don, lingering, startled his uncle with a

whispered:

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

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

called away suddenly."

"Oh," said Donald, in a disappointed tone, "I hoped you had given him

his walking papers."

"I have, perhaps," returned Mr. Reed, smiling gravely, "but not in the

way you supposed."

Don looked up, eagerly, hoping to hear more, but his uncle, without

another 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 only

the original thirty came, but other boys and girls whose names had been

added to the list; secondly, a lovely snow-storm, one of the bright, dry

kind, had come during the night, and evidently had come to stay;

thirdly, the guests made it a frolic from the start, and every

sleigh-load driven to the door by Jack came in singing and cheering;

fourthly, Uncle George, as Dorry said, was "splendid," Jack was "good as

gold," and Liddy was "too lovely for anything;" fifthly, the house from

top to bottom was bright, home-like, and beautiful; and lastly, hardly

anything was broken, not a single child was killed, and the house wasn't

burned to the ground,--all of which Liddy and Jack agreed was "simply

mirac'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 girls

flitting, gathering everywhere, from garret to kitchen,--now scattered,

now crowded, now listening to stories, now running, now hiding, now

gazing at an impromptu "performance," now sitting in a demure circle,

with a napkin on every lap,--you know why,--now playing games, now

having a race on the broad freshly-swept piazza, that extended along

every side of the mansion, now giving three cheers for Uncle George, and

then beginning all over again. It lasted more than ten hours, yet nobody

was tired, (until the next day!) and all the guests declared, in one way

or another, that it was the very nicest time they ever had known in

their 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, unconsciously

set an example to all the picnickers. Uncle George,--ah, now I know

what to say! You have known him heretofore as a man of grave

responsibility,--troubled with an anxiety which to you, perhaps, has

been 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, laughed

and 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 say

his brother Wolcott was handsomer still. No wonder Don and Dorry are so

good-looking. Ho! what are we going to do now?"

Then would follow a merry, well-ordered rush to this or that part of

the 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 the

spot.

We'll begin with the kitchen--Norah's kingdom. There she stands, a queen

in 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 of

Topsy's apron--close to the throat, tight around the skirt, and the arms

left 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 stirring

that the girls in turn have given it. Finally, some one holds forward a

pan of cold water. Dorothy, carefully dipping out a spoonful of the

fragrant 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 loaded

with the coarse towel-aprons which she--knowing soul!--had specially

prepared for the occasion. "Sakes! be careful! Don't burn yourselves!"

But who hears? They are pulling the candy already. Boys and girls in

pairs, with hands daintily washed and greased, are taking soft lumps of

the cooling confection, drawing them out into long, shining ribbons,

doubling and drawing them out again until they get lighter and lighter

in color, and finally, the beautiful golden strands are declared ready

for more artistic handling. Then follow royal fun and rivalry, each

young confectioner trying to outdo the other. Some twist the soft candy

into sticks and lay them aside to cool; some braid it charmingly; others

make little walking-canes; others cut it into caramels,--one and all

indulging meantime in flavorsome morsels, and finally shouting with

delight over Donald's masterpiece, which he has placed upon the table

for inspection, and which he calls

[Illustration: THE MAID OF ORLEANS!]

"Ha! ha!" shouts Daniel Danby. "Pretty good! But supposing it hadn't

been made of Orleans! Guess there are other kinds of molasses." But that

sarcastic and well-informed young gentleman is hardly heard in the

laughing commotion.

Ah, what a washing of hands! For the fun of the thing, Uncle George has

caused warm water to be put into a great tub, which stands upon the

wash-bench, and now the candy-pullers take their turn in a close ring

about it, all frantically feeling and struggling for the soap which

repeatedly bobs to the surface, only to be dashed out of sight again by

some desperate little hand.

While this merry crowd of cooks and pullers is working and frolicking in

the kitchen, under Norah's watchful eye, a few of the company may be

found in other parts of the old mansion, amusing themselves in their own

fashion. Some of the very young guests are in the upper rooms playing

childish games; and one or two older ones, who, as it happens, see quite

enough of the kitchen in their own homes, prefer to enjoy themselves now

in the finer apartments.

[Illustration: THE CANDY-PULLING.]

We'll look into Mr. Reed's study, the door of which stands slightly

ajar. Amanda Danby is there alone. She is sitting in the master's big

chair with a volume of poems in her hand--forgetting the party,

forgetting that she has laboriously smoothed her curly hair for the

occasion, forgetting that she is wearing her precious drab merino--her

mother's wedding gown--now made over for the fourth time, forgetting the

new collar and pretty blue bow at her throat (Dorry's gifts), conscious

only 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 that

dish-pans, pots, and kettles are mere phantoms of the imagination. The

verse runs on so smoothly too. She could write whole books of poetry

herself if she only had gone somewhere and improved herself. Then, as

she reads on, the great, comfortable arm-chair, the soft carpet, the

well-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 back

sitting-room, too, is deserted; the dining-room is locked for awhile;

but high up on the garret-stairs sit three wide-eyed, open-mouthed

youngsters listening to Ben Buster.

"True?" he is saying, "of course it's true; I knew the boy myself--Joe

Gunther, smart fellow. He's on a ranch, now, out in Californy. I'll tell

you how it was; he was living with a settler named Brown, 'way off in

Utah. 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 were

troublesome. Brown nor his men never went outside the door without a

loaded gun, and they kept several more in the hut, always loaded, ready

for an attack. One morning, long before daylight, Joe heard a rumpus. He

was in bed,--none of your cots, but a bunk, like a shelf, fastened to

the 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, you

see; no laths, nor plaster, nor any such nonsense. Well, Joe knew by

what he heard that old man Brown was inside, firing from the door at the

Indians; didn't know where the other two were,--killed, may be,--and so

Joe gets up on his knees and looks through a crevice of the stockade

wall, and sees the chief crawling stealthily around the hut to get in at

the only window and attack the old man! A loaded gun--double barrel--was

hanging on the wall right near Joe. What did he do but take it, put the

muzzle through the chink, and let go at the fellow; discharged both

barrels clean at him. 'You will, will you?' he yelled out, as the Indian

fell; and I declare, if the other Indians weren't so scared and

mystified by the sudden voice, and the chief killed, out of the very

walls, as it seemed to them, that they turned and scampered. Joe rushed

out to old man Brown, and there he was, with his two partners, at the

door, not one of the three scratched, and the chief was lying there by

the stockade wall, just as he fell.

"Joe didn't care to go near him, for by this time he began to feel

rather weak in the joints. But the most wonderful part of all is to come

yet. That Indian chief was only wounded, after all. They thought he was

killed; and while the three men and Joe were in the hut, planning what

they should do next,--for they were sure the redskins would come back in

greater force to get the body of their chief,--I declare if that old

Indian didn't up and go about his business. Brown and Joe and all of

them searched the forest well, that day and the next, but they never

found him. Joe had made his mark though, and he was in more than one

scrimmage with the Indians after that."

"It's a shame to kill Indians!" at last exclaims one of Ben's

awe-stricken listeners. "My father says they've been imposed upon and

abused by the white folks. He says we ought to teach them instead of

killing them."

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

says so too."

"Oh, does he?" returns Ben Buster, in mild wrath, "who doesn't? But this

was a fair fight. What are you going to do when they're doin' the

killing, eh? Open your book and hear them a spelling lesson? Guess not.

Ask 'em questions in 'rithmetic when they're helping themselves to your

scalp? Oh, of course."

All of which would be very impressive and very convincing to the young

hearers, did not a small boy, named Jedediah Treadwell, at this moment

come 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 in

search of adventures. He opens a door, sees a small ring of prettily

dressed 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 room

on the other side of the hall; but Ben, hearing Fandy's familiar voice

there, turns aside and goes slowly down stairs, feeling rather bored

since there is no one to listen to his stories.

Soon he is in the kitchen, laughing with the rest at Donald's expressive

masterpiece, but secretly resolving never to go into company again until

he can have a frock-coat. The blue cloth jacket and trousers, bought

with his last year's savings, somehow do not seem to him as fine as they

did when he put them on earlier in the day; though he is an independent

youth, not easily made dissatisfied with his appearance. For the first

time in his life he rather envies Daniel David and Ellen Elizabeth, who

look remarkably well on this occasion, being dressed in clothes that

once 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 slyly

handing garments to Mrs. Danby, with the flattering assurance that as

the 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 has

complied.

Talking of the Danbys, perhaps this is a fitting time to explain the

commotion that Ben heard in Mr. Reed's sleeping-room.

A moment before, and in the midst of certain lively planning, a

middle-sized boy, named Thomas Budd, had strayed from the candy-pulling

scene and appeared at the threshold of this apartment, where Charity

Danby, little Isabella Danby, Fandy, and three or four others were

assembled.

"All right!" shouted Fandy, excitedly, as Master Budd entered; "come

along, Tommy Budd, you can play too. Now Charity Cora, look out for

Is'bella! We're going to have my new game."

"Oh, please do, Cora! quick!" cried little Helen Danby. "Fandy's made it

up all hisself, and he's goin' to teach it to us."

"That's right," said Fandy, approvingly, as Charity Cora hastily lifted

her three-year-old sister from the floor; "take her 'way off. It's a

awful dang'rous game. She might get killed!"

Very naturally, Cora, with little Isabel in her arms, stood near the

door to see what was going to happen.

"Now, chil'ren," cried Fandy, "take your places all over. Pete, you're a

lion; Sammy, you're a big wolf; Helen, you're a wild cat; Gory, you're a

elephant; and Tommy, you'll have to be,--let's see, what other animal is

there? 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 shovel

and poker from the brass stand by the open fireplace, and struck an

attitude.

"Now, chil'ren, you must all go 'round, a-howling and going on like

what 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 heads

with 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 kill

first is _it_--that's the game."

"All right," exclaimed Tommy Budd, "and then that one takes the gun and

sword 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 all

the 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 in

great glee; and Cora tried not to feel frightened.

Fandy made a capital hunter; he shot right and left, and sawed off the

heads of the slain like a good fellow, until at last there were four

dead 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 his

shoulder. 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 taking

fresh aim.

Bang!

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

"Now, sir," growls the kangaroo, butting the overthrown hunter with his

head, "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 to

laugh.

Cora laughed as heartily as any, and so did half a dozen big boys and

girls 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,--partly

to change the subject, and partly because a boy whom he knew suddenly

appeared 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 had

joined the crowd in the kitchen, and were feasting ecstatically upon

caramels and molasses sticks.

"Whatever shall I do, Mr. George, sir," said the distressed Lydia, "to

stop the eating? They'll be sick, sir, every mother's child of them, if

they keep on."

"Tell them to wash their hands and faces and come to the parlor. We'll

have the picture-gallery game now," said Mr. Reed.

Accordingly, scouts were sent through the house to bring the company

together. Meantime, Sailor Jack, in his best clothes, was hard at work

clearing the decks for action, as he said.

All were in the parlor and seated, at last. That is, all excepting Uncle

George and eight or ten, who hardly could be missed from such a roomful.

Jack had arranged the chairs in several long rows, facing the great

sliding-doors that separated the parlor from the back sitting-room; and

on these were seated subdued and expectant boys and girls, all gazing at

the closed doors, while the youngest of the guests sat on the floor in

front 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 of

afternoon sunlight was pouring into the large room. Whispered comments

upon the change of weather arose, coupled with remarks that there would

be coasting next day, anyhow; then came other remarks, and light

laughter, with occasional clapping of hands, when suddenly Mr. Reed

appeared 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 be

merciful in your remarks, and not to be too funny while you try to make

the pictures laugh. For, you must know, if any picture in our gallery is

guilty of even a smile, it must instantly pop out of sight, leaving its

frame empty. When all the frames are thus deserted, we shall expect some

of you to fill them again. In fact, each picture in the present

exhibition is to select his or her substitute for the next time."

At this, some of the boys looked troubled, and some of the girls

tittered; but one and all clapped, in hearty applause of Mr. Reed's

little speech.

Then came the tinkle of a bell to announce that all was ready; Ed Tyler

and Donald pushed back the sliding doors, and there, in the great square

doorway, was the picture-gallery. To be strictly correct, we should call

this gallery a gray wall, apparently hung from top to bottom with fine

portraits in broad gilt frames, and all looking wonderfully life-like

and _un_natural; for when a live portrait must not laugh, how can it

feel at ease?

At first the spectators were too surprised to speak. Then came a murmur

of admiration, with cries of "Good, good!" from the boys and "How

lovely!" from the girls; while Liddy, by the parlor door, clasped her

hands in silent rapture at the beautiful show.

Beautiful, indeed, it was. All the portraits were as fresh and glowing

as though they had been "painted yesterday." The drawing was perfect,

the coloring exquisite, and so well were the pictures lighted, so

cunningly provided with dark backgrounds, that they seemed really to be

paintings. Dorry, in a prim Quaker cap and muslin neckerchief, was

prettier than ever. Josie Manning, in red cloak and hood, made a

charming gypsy; little Fandy, with his brown eyes and rosy cheeks, was a

remarkably handsome portrait of himself; and a sallow, black-haired

youth in a cloak and slouched hat, with a paper-cutter in his clenched

fist, scowled admirably as a brigand. The other pictures, though content

to be simply faces trying not to smile, were really very bright and

effective, 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 a

chromo."

The gypsy twitched very slightly, and all the other pictures put on

increased 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 taking

drawing-lessons.

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

After this, though the remarks made were not brilliant nor irresistibly

funny, the picture-gallery soon suffered severe losses. So small a thing

will make us laugh when we try to look grave. The brigand exploded at a

cutting allusion to his dagger; the Quakeress yielded to a profound

remark concerning her _chiaro-scuro_; other faces grinned the instant

they were specially alluded to, and finally, Fandy's portrait was the

only one left in its frame. That bright little countenance stared into

the room so defiantly that even Uncle George tried, with the rest, to

conquer it.

In vain critics criticised--the portrait was deaf. In vain they tried to

be 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 felt

bound 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 tried

to 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, any

way? 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'll

shine it up a little and see what that will do." Suddenly a childish

howl was heard, to everybody's surprise; for little three-year-old

Isabel had been quite forgotten.

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

Fan'-y."

The little sister unconsciously triumphed where every one else had

tried and failed. Fandy laughed with the rest, and instantly

disappeared, as though he had been blown out like a candle. He was soon

in the parlor, comforting Isabel to the best of his ability, casting

saucy glances at the rest of the company meanwhile, with a merry shake

of the head, as if to say, "You thought you could make me laugh, did

you? 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 them

laughed as soon as the opened doors revealed them to the spectators.

This time, by way of variety, each frame as soon as vacated was filled

with another portrait in full view of the company. When the emptied

frame 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 upon

a chair or table behind it, or even a ladder, whichever might be

necessary to enable the picture to appear at the proper place.

For this gray wall, you must know, was but a large straight curtain of

dark cotton stuff, without any fulness, stretched tightly across the

doorway behind the sliding doors, and with large square or oblong pieces

cut out of it here and there. Each open space thus left was bordered

with a strip of gilt paper, thus forming an empty picture-frame. Don and

Dorry had made the whole thing themselves the day before, and they were

therefore very happy at the success of the picture-gallery, and the fun

it created. They had ingeniously provided the highest pictures with

small, dark curtains, fastened above the back of the frames, and hanging

loosely enough to be drawn behind the living pictures, so as to form

backgrounds. A draped clothes-horse answered the same purpose for the

lower pictures. All of this explanation and more was given by Don and

Dorry at the house-picnic to eager listeners who wished to get up

exactly such a picture-gallery at their own homes some evening. But

while they were talking about it somebody at the piano struck up a

march--"Mendelssohn's Wedding March"--and almost before they knew it the

guests found themselves marching to the music two by two in a procession

across the great square hall, now lighted by a bright blaze in its open

fireplace.

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

Donald and Dorry joined the merry line, wondering what was about to

happen--when to their great surprise (ah, that sly Uncle George! and

that innocent Liddy!) the double doors leading into the dining-room were

flung 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 not

attempt to describe it, for fear of forgetting to name some of the good

things. Imagine what you will, and I do believe there was something just

like it, or quite as good, upon that delightful table, so beautiful with

its airy, fairy-like structures of candied fruits, frostings, and

flowers; its jagged rock of ice where chickens and turtles, made of

ice-cream, were resting on every peak and cranny; its gold-tinted

jellies, and its snowy temples. Soon, fairy-work and temple yielded to

ruthless boys, who crowded around with genteel eagerness to serve the

girls with platefuls of delicacies, quite ignoring the rolling eye-balls

of two little colored gentlemen who had been sent up from town with the

feast, and who had fully expected to do the honors. Meanwhile Liddy, in

black silk gown and the Swiss muslin apron which Dorry had bought for

her in the city, was looking after the youngest guests, resolved that

the little dears should not disgrace her motherly care by eating too

much, or by taking the wrong things.

"Not that anything on that table could hurt a chicken," she said softly

to 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 too

careful. That's the reason we were so particular to serve out sandwiches

and substantials early in the day, you know. But sakes! there's that

molasses 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 had

handed you that well-laden plate, would you have felt like talking to

Liddy?

But Liddy didn't mind. She was too happy with her own thoughts to notice

trifles. Besides, Sailor Jack just at that moment came to lay a fresh

log on the hall fire, and that gave her an opportunity to ask him if he

ever had seen young folks "having a delighteder time."

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

response.

At this very moment, Gory Danby, quite unconscious of the feast up

stairs, was having his own private table in the kitchen. Having grown

hungry for his usual supper of bread and milk, he had stolen in upon

Norah and begged for it so charmingly, that she was unable to resist

him. Imagine his surprise when, drowsily taking his last mouthful, he

saw 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 by

Uncle George, who seemed the happiest boy of all, went back to the

parlor, which, meanwhile, had been rearranged, and there, producing a

great plump tissue-paper bag, he hung it to the chandelier that was

suspended from the middle of the parlor ceiling. I should like to tell

you about this chandelier, how it was covered with hundreds of long,

three-sided glass danglers that swung, glittered, and flashed in a

splendid way, now that all its wax candles were lighted: but that would

interrupt the account of the paper bag. This bag was full of something,

they were sure. Uncle George blindfolded Josie Manning with a

handkerchief, and putting a stick in her hand, told her to turn around

three 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, but

each failed as absurdly as Josie. Finally, by acclamation, the bandage

was put over Dorothy's dancing eyes, though she was sure she never,

never could--and lo! after revolving like a lovely Chinese top, the

blindfolded damsel, with a spring, and one long, vigorous stroke, tore

the bag open from one side to the other. Down fell the contents upon the

floor--pink mottoes, white mottoes, blue mottoes, and mottoes of gold

and silver paper, all fringed and scalloped and tied with ribbons, and

every one of them plump with sugar-almonds or some good kind of candy.

How the guests rushed and scrambled for them!--how Fandy Danby fairly

rolled over the other boys in his delight!--and how the young folks tore

open the pretty papers, put the candy into their pockets, and shyly

handed or sent the printed mottoes to each other! Fandy, in his

excitement, 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 with

a quick "Let me see't. What does it say?" She held out the little bit of

paper without letting it go, and Fandy seizing it at the other end, read

laboriously 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 little

head at her, exclaimed emphatically:

"Girl, _girl_, don't you see, I meant girl! It's pleposterous to think

I meant boy, cause you ain't one, don't you see. Mottoes is awful

foolish, 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 one

and all "just doted on the Lancers," as Josie Manning said. Uncle

George, knowing this, had surprised the D's by secretly engaging two

players,--for piano-forte and violin,--and their well-marked time and

spirited playing put added life into even the lithe young forms that

flitted through the rooms. Charity looked on in rapt delight, the more

so as kind Sailor Jack already had carried the sleepy and warmly bundled

Isabel home to her mother.

One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, after

a few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to prepare

for the

"THANK-YOU" GAME!

"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; and

their host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightest

idea 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," continued

the 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; "and

don'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 walked

the big fairy godmother and her white gnome.

She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, and

a long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. The

rest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cut

in it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tied

around the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrow

ribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, and

a 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 a

bagful 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 it

is, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back without

opening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keep

the gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle moving

until my gnome knocks three times."

Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly the

blindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointed

it straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd was

the happy youth pointed at.

"Help yourself, my dear," squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held the

sack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out a

neat 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, "Thank

you, 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 the

stick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct her

neighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that.

"Help yourself, child," she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcel

which she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied with

ribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you," but

the 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 into

the 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 suffer

those who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of the

game, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all had

parcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do but

straighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak--and if it

wasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to be

out of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had known

all along it was he.

"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now--" starting in pursuit--"let's see who

the white gnome is!"

They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very much

astonished 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 the

rest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing.

Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things by

halves, 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 big

parlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, had

great fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade." After a deal

of 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 to

knock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving the

Manning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from the

village 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 and

hurrahing, 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 from

the door.

* * * * *

And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed

till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could

settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his

room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as

she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged

sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put

away 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 is

it? What did you want to show me?"

"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk

that 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 farthest

roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the

things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a

parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my

room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in

the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I

felt nervous about looking at it alone."

"Fetch it out," said Donald.

She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or

three old copy-books.

"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a

tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of

disappointment 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 with

excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.

"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are

private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."

"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep

a 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 the

happier. 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 read

it."

"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found the

book, 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 her

brother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what is

best to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody to

read; 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 the

drawer 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 a

thing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady."

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

door.

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 to

the 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 Josie

Manning 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 cosey

corner. Mere acquaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though a part

of the young lady's pretty bedroom, it was so shut off by a high folding

screen that it formed a complete little apartment in itself. It was

decorated with various keepsakes and fancy articles--some hanging upon

the walls, some standing on the mantelshelf, and some on the cabinet in

which she kept her "treasures." With these, and its comfortable lounge

and soft Persian rug, and, more than all, with its bright little window

over-head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the gable-roof of the

summer-kitchen, it was indeed a most delightful place for the little

maid. And there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote letters, and

thought out, as well as she could, the plans and problems of her young

life. In very cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth made the

corner doubly comfortable, and on mild days, a dark fire-board and a

great vase of dried grasses and red sumac branches made it seem to Dorry

the brightest place in the world.

Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that now, when she looked

in and found it empty, she turned back. The cosey corner was not itself

without Dorry.

"She's gone to the Danbys' after all," thought Josie, standing

irresolute 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 pretty

shoulders at its loneliness, she tossed her hood and shawl upon the

sofa, and, taking up a large book of photographic views that lay there,

seated herself just outside the screen, where she would be sure to see

Dorry if she should enter the room. Meantime, a pleasant heat came in

upon her from the warm hall, not a sound was to be heard, and she was

soon lost in the enjoyment of the book, which had carried her across the

seas, far into foreign scenes and places.

But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She was over-head, in the

garret, kneeling beside a small leather trunk, which was studded with

tarnished brass nails.

How dusty it was!

"I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up here," thought Dorry, "for

the boys poked it out from away, 'way back under the rafters. If she had

known 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 it

was attached to the trunk by a strip of buff leather inside, extending

its entire length, and that its buff-paper lining was gay with sprays of

pink rose-buds. In one of the upper corners of the lid was a label

bearing 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 and

my Grandfather. And she wrote this in October, 1849--ten whole years

before we were born! and when she was only a little girl herself!"

Then, with reverent hands Dorry lifted the top article--a soft, pink

muslin dress, which had a narrow frill of yellowish lace, basted at the

neck. It seemed to have been cast aside as partly worn out. Beneath this

lay a small black silk apron, which had silk shoulder-straps, bordered

with narrow black lace, and also little pockets trimmed with lace.

Dorry, gently thrusting her hand into one of these pockets, drew forth a

bit of crumpled ribbon, some fragments of dried rose-leaves, and a

silver thimble marked "K. R." She put it on her thimble-finger; it

fitted exactly.

"Oh dear!" thought Dorry, as, with flushed cheeks and quick-beating

heart, she looked at the dress and apron on her lap, "I wish Don would

come!" Then followed a suspicion that perhaps she ought to call him, and

Uncle George too, before proceeding further; but the desire to go on was

stronger. Aunt Kate was hers,--"my aunty, even more than Don's," she

thought, "because he's a boy, and of course doesn't care so much;" and

then 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, embroidered

with white silk stars at regular intervals. Removing this, Dorry was

about to take off the white paper wrapper also, when she caught sight of

some words written on it in pencil.

"Dear Aunt Kate!" thought Dorry, intensely interested; "how carefully

she 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 forgetting

everything 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 that

Cousin Delia, Aunt Kate's own little girl, had come back to life and was

sitting on the floor beside her, and that she and Delia always would be

true and good, and would love Aunt Kate for ever and ever.

But the doll, Delia, recalled her. How pretty and fresh it was!--a sweet

rosy face, with round cheeks and real hair, once neatly curled, but now

pressed in flat rings against the bare dimpled shoulders. The eyes were

closed, and when Dorry sought for some means of opening them, she found

a wire evidently designed for that purpose. But it had become so rusty

and 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 a

vigorous jerk that the eyes opened--bright, blue, glad eyes, that seemed

to recognize her.

"Oh, you pretty thing!" exclaimed Dorry, as she kissed the smiling face

and held it close to her cheek for a moment. "Delia never can play with

you, dear; she was drowned, but _I'll_ keep you as long as I live--Who's

that? 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 turned

toward him, with the doll still in her arms. "Not crying?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm not crying," she said, hastily wiping her eyes, and

surprised to find them wet. "See here! This is Delia. Oh, Don, don't

laugh. Stop, stop!"

Checking his sudden mirth, as he saw Dorry's emotion, and glancing at

the open trunk, which until now had escaped his notice, he began to

suspect 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 the

trunk 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 in

a 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's

thoughts. More than this, a bright beam of sunlight now shone through

the dusty window. Sobbing no longer, she carefully wrapped the doll in

the same paper and piece of silk that had held it for so many years. As

she arose, holding the parcel in her hand, the pink dress and black silk

apron on her lap fell to the floor.

A sudden thought came to her. Dorry never could remain sad very long at

a time. She hastily opened the parcel again.

"Lie down there, Delia dear," she said, gently placing the doll on the

rose-buds of the still open trunk-lid. "Lie down there, till I put on

these things. I'm going to take you down to see your uncle!"

"Won't he be astonished though!" murmured Dorry, as, half smiling, half

sighing, she took off her dress in great excitement, and put on, first

the pink muslin, and then the black silk apron, fastening them at the

back as well as she could, with many a laborious twist and turn of her

white arms, and with a half-puzzled consciousness that the garments were

a perfect fit.

The dress, which was high at the neck, had short sleeves, and was

gathered to a belt at the waist. Tying the apron at the back, so that

the ends of its black ribbon bow hung down over the full pink skirt, she

proceeded 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 and

tapered toward the belt, it struck her that the effect must be quite

pretty. Bending to take up Delia, she saw, for the first time, among the

bits of calico and silk lying in the bottom of the trunk, what proved to

be a wide-brimmed straw hat. In another moment it was on her head, and

with 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 stood

ajar just enough to admit her slight figure.

Mr. Reed, who sat at the table busily writing, did not even look up

when she entered.

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

her 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 all

these things up stairs. And look at the dolly!"

By this time the hat had fallen off, and she was shaking her tumbled

hair at him in a vehement manner, still holding Delia in her extended

arms.

"Good-bye, Ed!" rang out Donald's clear voice from the piazza, and in an

instant he was looking through the study window, much surprised to see a

quaint little pink figure folded in Uncle George's embrace, while

Dorry'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 the

Danbys'. "I think Dorry has gone to see Charity Danby," she said, "and

I'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 in

Dorry's room all the time. First I heard Don run up to the garret for

something, then you went up after him, and then you both passed down

again, and out upon the piazza. I suppose you went to the old

carriage-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 big

thing. 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 the

garret."

"Why, that's queer!" was Josie's surprised exclamation. "Then it must

have 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 an

old woman,--cap, crutch, corked wrinkles and all complete; never saw

anything 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 Josie

Manning.

* * * * *

"Well!" exclaimed Donald, noting Dorry's strange costume, as he entered

the room, after shouting a second good-by to Ed Tyler.

"Well!" echoed Dorry, freeing herself from her uncle's arms, and with a

little jump facing Donald,--"what of it? I thought I'd pay Uncle a visit

with my pretty doll-cousin here" (hugging Delia as she spoke), "and he

started 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 to

be fun to me."

"But it _wasn't fun_ to me!" cried that astonishing Dorry. "It was--it

was--tell him, Don; _you_ know."

There was no need for Don to speak. Dorry's flushed cheeks, shining

eyes, and excited manner told their own story; and both her brother and

uncle, because they knew her so well; felt quite sure that in a moment

Dorothy's own self would have a word to say.

Still folding the dolly to her heart and in both arms, and with the

yearning look of a little child, the young girl, without moving from the

middle of the room, looked wistfully toward the window, as though she

saw outside some one whom she loved, but who could not or would not come

to her. Then she stepped toward her uncle, who had seated himself again

in 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 my

life before, and the lonely feeling is almost all gone. I found a little

old trunk, far back under the rafters, with her doll in it, her clothes

and her writing; and now I see how _real_ she was,--not like a dream, as

she 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 of

the others all the way.

CHAPTER XVII.

DORRY ASKS A QUESTION.

DONALD and Dorothy followed their uncle closely, though he seemed to

have forgotten them; and they were by his side when he reached the

little treasure-trove, with its still opened lid.

Paying no attention to their presence, Mr. Reed hurriedly, but with the

tenderest touch, took out every article and examined it closely.

When he came to the diary, which Dorry that day had restored unopened to

the trunk, he eagerly scanned its pages here and there; then, to the

great disappointment of the D's he silently laid it down, as if

intending later to take it away with him.

"May we see that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, softly. "Isn't it right for us to

read 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 a

hopeless air, and turned toward Dorry, saying:

"Dorothy, where is that doll? It must go back where you found it, and

the 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 mean

to _play_ with it. It isn't a dolly to me; she's more like--like

something with life. But you can shut her up in the dark, if you want

to."

"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, if

it is wrong, I can't help it. What is the reason that you always feel so

badly when I speak of Aunt Kate?"

He looked at her in blank surprise for an instant; then, as she still

awaited his reply, he echoed her words, "Feel badly when you speak of

Aunt Kate! Why, my child, what do you mean?"

"I mean, Uncle dear, that there is a secret in the house; something you

have 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 is

something 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 that

the children could be told only the facts that were positively known to

him; then seating himself on the corner of a large chest, he drew Don

and Dorry towards him.

"Yes, my children," he said, in his own hearty way, as if already a load

had been taken from his mind, "there is something. It is right that I

should 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 down

stairs. It is chilly up here--and, by the way, you will catch cold in

that 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 taking

her 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 the

safe side, as Liddy says."

"Much better," said Uncle, nodding with forced cheerfulness. "Down with

you, Dot. We'll join you in a minute."

Dorry, as she left them, saw her uncle stooping low to peer into the far

roof-end of the garret, and she had time to place Delia carefully in her

treasure-cabinet, put on the warmer dress, and be ready to receive her

uncle 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, with

a conflict of curiosity and dread, Dorry gracefully conducted them into

her 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, he

placed himself beside Dorry upon the sofa, while her brother took a seat

close by.

"Well," began Dorry, clasping her hands tightly, and trying to feel

calm. "We're ready now, Uncle."

"And so am I," said he. "But first of all, I must ask you both not to

magnify 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 was

really--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 at

the interruption, "it really never made any difference to me, nor to

your father, and it should make no difference to you now. You know," he

continued, with some hesitation, "children sometimes are adopted into

families; that is to say, they are loved just the same, and cared for

just the same, but they are not own children. Do you understand?"

"Understand what, please, Uncle? Did Aunt Kate adopt any one?" asked

Dorry.

"No, but my father and mother did; your grandfather and grandmother

Reed, you know," said he, looking at the D's in turn, as though he hoped

one of them would help him.

"You don't mean, Uncle," almost screamed Dorry, "that it was that--that

horrid--"

Donald came to her assistance.

"Was it _that man_, Uncle?" he asked, quickly. "Ben Buster told me the

fellow claimed to be related to us; was _he_ ever adopted by Grandfather

Reed?"

"Ugh!" shuddered Dorry.

Very little help poor Uncle George could hope for now from the D's. The

only way left was to speak out plainly.

"No, not that man, my children; but Aunt Kate. Aunt Kate was an adopted

daughter--an adopted sister; but she was in all other respects one of

our family. Never was daughter or sister more truly beloved. When she

came to us she was but two years old, an orphan. Grandpa and Grandma

Reed had known her parents, and when the little"--here Mr. Reed hastily

resolved to say nothing of Eben Slade for the present--"the little girl

was left alone in the world, destitute, with no relatives to care for

her, my father and mother took her into their home, to bear their name

and to be their own dear little daughter.

"When Aunt Kate was old enough, they told her all; but it was her wish

that we boys should forget that we were not really her brothers. This

was 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 secret

was known only to our relatives, and one or two old friends, and to

Lydia, who was Kate's devoted young nurse and attendant. In fact, we

never thought anything about it. To us, as to the world outside, she was

Kate Reed--the joy and pride of our home--our sister Kate to the very

last. 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 strange

news 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, you

and Donald had been told all this; but indeed your Aunt Kate was always

so dear to me that I wished you to consider her, as she considered

herself, a relative. It has been my great consolation to think and speak

of your father and her as my brother and sister, and to see you, day by

day, growing to love and honor her memory as she deserved. Now, do you

not 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 am

very glad you have told us, Uncle. Aren't you, Dorry?"

Dorry could not speak, but she kissed Uncle George and tried to feel

brave.

"Mamma and Aunt Kate were great friends, weren't they?" Donald asked.

"Yes, indeed. Though they became acquainted only a few months before

your parents married and departed for Europe, they soon became very fond

of each other."

"Then, Uncle," pursued Donald, "why didn't _you_ know mother too? I

should think she would have come here to visit Aunt Kate sometimes."

"As your mother was an only child, living alone with her invalid

father, she was unwilling to leave him, and so Aunt Kate visited her

instead. I wish it had been different, and that I could speak to you and

Dorothy more fully of your mother, whom I rarely saw. We all know that

she was good and lovely, but I should like to be able to bring her

familiarly to your minds. This old home would be all the dearer, if it

could be associated with thoughts of your mother and happy days which

she had passed here with Aunt Kate."

At this point Mr. Reed was summoned to his study. A gentleman from town

had called to see him on business.

"Keep up a good heart, my girl," he said, tenderly, to Dorry, as he left

her, "and as soon as you feel like it, take a run out-of-doors with

Donald. 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 would

go out and join him very soon.

"That's a good old Dot," said Don, proudly. "I'll wait for you. Where's

your 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 the

gymnasium." And off he ran, well knowing that Dorry's heart was heavy,

but believing that the truest kindness and sympathy lay in making as

light as possible of Uncle George's revelation; which, in his boyish

logic, he felt wasn't so serious a thing after all, if looked at in the

right spirit.

Dorothy waited until he was out of sight, and then sat down to think it

all over.

The result was that when Liddy chanced to pass through the hall, a few

moments later, she was startled by hearing half-suppressed sobs.

According to the custom of the house, which made the cosey corner a sort

of 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 little

sob 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 all

about it."

"Sakes alive!" cried Liddy, holding up her hands in dismay--"not told

you _everything_?"

"Yes, he has," insisted Dorry, weeping afresh, as Lydia's manner seemed

to give her a new right to consider that an awful fact had been revealed

to her. "I know now all about it. I haven't any Aunt Kate at all. I'm

a-all alone!"

"For shame, Miss Dorry; how can you talk so? You, with your blessed

uncle and your brother, to say nothing of them who have cherished you in

their arms from the day you were a helpless baby--for shame, Miss, to

say 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 good

scolding.

"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 you

were 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 care

for 'em for what they are? It wasn't just belonging to this or that

family made Miss Kate so lovely,--it's what she was herself; and I can

certify to her bein' as real as you and me are--if that's all that's

wanted."

By this time Dorry, though half-comforted, had buried her face in the

sofa-pillow.

"Not that I can't feel for you, poor dear," Liddy continued, gently

patting the young girl's shoulder, but speaking more rapidly, "many's

the time I've wept tears, just to think of you, longing with all your

little heart for a mother. I'm a rough old body, my dove, and what are

your dear good uncle and Master Donald but menkind, after all, and it's

natural you should pine for Aunty. Ah, I'm afraid it's my doings that

you've been thinkin' of her all these days, when, may be, if I'd known

your dear mother, which I didn't,--and no blame to me neither,--I

wouldn't always have been holding Miss Kate up to you. But she was a

darling, was your Aunt Kate, as you know by her picture down

stairs--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 more

cheerful 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't

brighten up. When you're in trouble, count your blessings--that's what I

always say; and you've a big share of 'em after all, dear. Let me make

you a nice warm cup of tea--that'll build you up, Miss Dorry. It always

helps me when I--Sakes! what's that?"

"What's what, Liddy?" said Dorry, languidly raising her head from the

pillow. "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 her

senses?"

But the sight of the doll reassured her.

"Oh, that's Delia, is it?" she asked, still wondering; "well, where in

the world did it come from?"

Dorry told her all about the discovery of the little trunk that had been

hidden 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 were

too little to spare me, and I've never felt easy about it since, nor

trusted any one but myself to clean that garret. To think of their

pushin' things in, 'way out of sight and sound like that!"

This practical digression had a good effect on Dorry. Rousing herself to

make the effort, she bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and seizing her

hat and shawl, started with a sigh to fulfil her promise to Donald.

And all this time, Liddy sat stroking and folding the little pink dress

and black apron.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE GYMNASIUM.

WHEN Dorry reached the "gymnasium," as Ed and Don called it, she could

not help smiling at the grand title they had given prematurely to a very

unpromising-looking place.

The building had been a fine carriage-house in its day, but of late it

had 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 the

new carriage-house was built. Besides Jack's appropriation of a portion

of the building, Donald had planked off one end for his own special

purposes,--first as a printing-office, later as a carpenter's shop,--and

Dorothy had planted vines, which in summer surrounded its big window

with graceful foliage; and so it had come to be looked upon as the

special property of Jack and the D's.

Consequently, when Donald asked Mr. Reed to allow him to sell or send

away 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 a

gymnasium, his uncle not only gave free consent, but offered to let him

have help and material, in case the young man should fall short of

funds--as he most undoubtedly would.

The project was but a few days old at the time of the house-picnic, but

being a vigorous little project, with life in its veins, it grew and

prospered finely. Sailor Jack entered heartily into the work--the more

so as his gallant fancy conceived the idea of some day setting up near

by a sort of ship's-rigging with shrouds and "ratlines," in which to

give the boys lessons, and occasionally disport himself, by way of

relief, when his sea-longing should become too much for him. Plans and

consultations soon were the order of the day, and Dorry, becoming

interested, learned more about pulleys, ropes, ladders, beams, strength

of timber, and such things, than any other girl in the village.