The building was kept moderately warm by an old stove, which Jack had

set up two years before, when Don and Dorry had the printing-press fever

(which, by the way, had broken out in the form of a tiny, short-lived

newspaper, called _The Nestletown Boom_), and day after day the boys

spent every odd moment of daylight there, assisted in many ways by

Dorothy. But perhaps more efficient help was rendered by Jack, when he

could spare the time from his horses, and by the village carpenter, when

that worthy would deign to keep his engagements.

Besides, Uncle George had agreed that the new tutor should not begin

with his pupils until after the Christmas holidays, now close at hand.

Under this hearty co-operation, the work prospered wonderfully.

[Illustration: DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM.]

Pretty soon, boys who came to jeer remained to try the horizontal bar,

or the "horse," or the ladder that stretched invitingly overhead from

one end of the building to the other. By special suggestion, Don's and

Dorry's Christmas gifts from Uncle were a flying-course, a swinging-bar,

and a spring-board. Jack and Don carted load after load of sawdust from

the lumber-mill--to soften the deck in case of a slip from the rigging,

as Jack explained to Lydia--and presto! the gymnasium was in full

operation.

All of which explains why Josie Manning and Dorothy Reed bought

dark-blue flannel, and sent to town for the latest pattern for gymnasium

dresses; why Don and Ed soon exasperated them by comfortably purchasing

suits ready made; why Dorry's cheeks grew rosier; why Uncle was pleased;

why Jack was proud; and why Lydia was morally sure the D's would break

their precious necks, if somebody didn't put a stop to it.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE "G. B. C."

DOROTHY was made very happy one day by Uncle George handing her the

little copy-book diary, and saying that she and Donald could read as

much of it as they wished.

"Oh, Don; see here!" she exclaimed, holding up the book, as Donald, by

invitation, joined her in the Cosey Corner. "It's all right. Uncle says

so. We'll begin at the first page and read every single word!"

The diary, it seemed, contained nothing startling, but it gave them an

excellent idea of Aunt Kate's happy girlhood. She spoke of many things

familiar to them, and above all, they were interested in her frequent

allusions to "our new dog, Nero," evidently her own special pet.

Poor Nero! So young then, and now so very old! This was his last

winter. He had become blind of late and very feeble; but, nevertheless,

when the end came, it was a shock to all, and a sore trial to Don and

Dorry. Many a time, after that day, they would stop in their sports to

bend beside the little headstone under the evergreens and talk of

him--the faithful friend they had loved all their lives, who had reached

his prime and died of old age during their own youth.

We must pass rapidly over the next few months, only pausing to say that

they were busy ones for the D's. In the first place, the new tutor, as

Don expressed it, was "worked by steam" and was "one of the broad-gauge,

high-pressure sort;" but Uncle George noted that his nephew and niece

made great advancement under what _he_ called Dr. Sneeden's careful and

earnest teaching.

But they had, too, their full share of recreation. Don and Ed found the

gymnasium not only a favorite resort in the way of pleasure, but also a

great aid to their physical development. After a few weeks' exercise,

their muscles began to grow stronger and harder, and the startling

climbs, leaps, tumbles, hand-springs and somersaults which the boys

learned to perform were surprising.

When the summer came, Don and Ed Tyler secretly believed themselves

competent to become members of the best circus troupe in the country,

and many a boy-visitor was asked to "feel _that_, will you?" as each

young Hercules knotted the upper muscles of his arm in order to astonish

the beholder. Even the girls caught the spirit, and, though they would

not for the world have had the boys know it, they compared muscle in a

mild way among themselves, and Dorry's was declared by admiring friends

to be "awfully hard."

Little Fandy Danby, too, after giving himself numberless bruises,

became so expert that he finally attained the summit of his ambition by

hanging from the horizontal ladder and going hand over hand its entire

length, though not without much puffing and panting and a frantic

flourishing of little legs.

Don and the boys had great fun in "stumping" each other; which consisted

in one performing a certain feat and challenging the others to do it,

and if matched in that, then daring them to some bolder and more

difficult attempt.

Uncle George himself took part in these contests, and, though often

beaten, threatened to distance them all after a few months' practice.

"There's a plentiful share of limberness tied up in these old muscles,"

he would say, "and when it's set free, boys, look out for your laurels!"

Well, the spring passed away and no bones were broken. Boating and

bathing, berrying and other sports, came with the advancing season; but

the great feature of the summer was the G. B. C., or Girls' Botany Club,

of which Dorry was president, Josie Manning secretary, and Dr. Sneeden

inspirer, advisory committee, and treasurer, all in one. Nearly all the

favorite girls joined, and boys were made honorary members whenever

their scientific interest and zeal in hunting for botanical treasures

entitled them to that distinction.

Ah, those were happy days! And if the honorary members were troublesome

now and then, scaring the girls half to death with lizards, toads, or

harmless garter-snakes, why it was only "the boys;" and after all, it

really was fun to scream a little by way of lightening the more solid

pursuits of the club. Besides, the boys often were a real help,

especially in rocky places and in the marshes, and-- Well, it was less

troublesome to have them than to do without them.

So far, only one real shadow had fallen across the sunny hours; and that

was when Dorry had proposed Charity Danby as a member, and some of the

foolish girls had objected on the plea that the Danbys were "poor

folks."

"Poor folks," indeed! You should have seen their president then! You

should have heard her spirited remarks, her good, wholesome arguments,

and seen her glowing, indignant presidential countenance! The opposition

had been stubborn at first, gathering strength in secret and losing it

in public, until at last good sense and kindliness prevailed. The motion

to admit Charity as a member of the G. B. C. was carried unanimously,

and almost the first she knew about it she was a full member, eagerly

searching hill-side and meadow with the rest, and wondering deep in her

inmost soul whether she ever, ever could "catch up" to the other girls.

They knew so much from books, and she had been able to study so little!

Poor Charity! She was wiser than she knew. Her habit of close

observation, and her eager desire to learn, soon made her a valuable

addition to the club. She knew where to find every wild flower of that

locality in its season, from the trailing arbutus in the spring to the

latest bloom of the autumn, and "Charity Danby says so" soon became a

convincing argument in many a discussion.

But we must now go back several weeks, and learn how it happened that

our busy Charity was able to accept the invitation of the G. B. C.

* * * * *

It was early in July; remnants of exploded fire-crackers still lingered

in the trampled grass near Mrs. Danby's white-washed fence. She--busy

soul!--was superintending the mending of her home-made chicken-coop now

trembling and quivering under the mighty strokes of Daniel David. With

one breath the mother was making suggestions to her young carpenter, and

with the next screaming to Helen and Isabella to be careful or they

would tumble into the pig-pen, when, suddenly, she saw Dorry at the back

gate.

"Massy! Here comes Dorothy Reed, looking like a fresh rose, as she is,

and not a thing in the house to rights. Well, I can't help it--ten

children so, and everything to look after. Ah, Dorothy!" continued Mrs.

Danby, exchanging her silent thoughts for active speech, "walk right in,

dear, and do please excuse everything. Charity's in the house, picking

up and putting away; I'd call her out, but--"

No need to finish the sentence. Dorry, with a cheery "Oh, no, indeed,

thank you!" had already vanished under the morning-glories that

brightened the doorway.

"Bless her heart!" pursued Mrs. Danby, now talking to Daniel David,

"but she's a beauty! Not that my own are humly, either. Charity's no

fright, by no means, and there's your sister Amanda--why, only last

summer Master Donald's teacher drew a picture of her, because she was so

picturesky, which I'll keep to my dying day. There, Dan Dave, you don't

need no more slats on that side; take this broken one out here, that's a

good child; it scrapes the old hen every time she goes under. Look out!

You'll break the whole thing to pieces if you ain't careful. My! How

strong boys are!"

Meantime, Dorry, as we know, had entered. The house _was_ out of order,

but Charity was doing her best. With one hand she was "picking up and

putting away," and with the other stroking the bumped head of baby

Jamie. Though now able to walk alone, the little one had just

experienced one of his frequent tumbles, and was crying and clinging to

Charity's skirts as he trotted beside her. No one else was in the room,

and perhaps this was why the busy sister was softly saying to herself,

as she worked:

[Illustration: "SO PICTURESKY!"]

"Queen Elizabeth was one, William-and-Mary's Mary was another, and Lady

Jane Grey and Queen Victoria--Oh, do hush, Jamie, dear, I've kissed it

twice already--there!"

Suiting the action to the word, she pressed her lips of healing once

more upon Jamie's yellow hair, and lifting her head again, she saw Dorry

in the doorway laughing.

"Oh, Dorothy, how you startled me! I didn't hear you coming at all! I'm

so glad! But you needn't laugh at me, Dorry--I'm only trying to remember

a little hist'ry."

"I'm not laughing at _you_," Dorry protested, merrily. "But it was so

funny to hear you putting the English queens into the pots and pans;

that was all. Here, let me help a little. Come, Jamie, sit on Dotty's

lap, and she'll tell you all about Bluebeard."

"Oh, no; that's too old for him. Tell him about the chickies," suggested

Charity, in a business-like way, as, disengaging her gown from his baby

clutch, she sprang upon a chair, in order to put something away on the

highest shelf of the dresser.

"It's no use," she said, jumping down again, almost angrily, and raising

her voice to be heard above Jamie's outcry. "Oh, dear, what _does_ make

you so naughty, Baby?"

"He isn't naughty," said Dorry, soothingly; "he's only tired of being

indoors. Come, Jamie, we'll go out and play chickie till Charity gets

through, and then we'll all take a nice walk."

Jamie seized Dorry's hand instantly, and out they went.

"Be careful!" called Charity, after her, setting a chair down hard at

the same time. "Look out, or he'll get right under the cow's feet; he

always does."

"I'll be careful," sang out Dorry. "Come as soon as you can. This

delightful air will do you good." Then, seeing Ellen Eliza, the

ten-year-old Danby girl, standing not far from the house, she led Jamie

toward her.

[Illustration: "HE'S COMPLAININ'."]

Ellen Eliza had a very tender heart. Every one who knew Mrs. Danby had

heard of that tender heart more than once; and so Dorry was not in the

least surprised to find Ellen Eliza in the act of "comforting" a

draggled-looking fowl, which she held tenderly in her arms in spite of

its protest.

"Is it hurt?" asked Dorry.

Ellen Eliza looked up with an anxious countenance as she murmured:

"Oh, no, not exactly hurt; he's complainin'. I think he's hungry, but he

won't eat."

"Dear me!" was Dorry's unfeeling comment; "then I'd let him go hungry, I

certainly should."

"Oh, no, you couldn't be cruel to a poor sick rooster!" Here Ellen Eliza

pressed the uneasy fowl to her heart. "May be, he has a sore throat."

"Do you know what _I_ think?" said Dorry, quite disregarding the

patient's possible affliction.

"What?" asked Ellen Eliza, plaintively, as if prepared to hear that her

feathered pet was going into a rapid decline. And Dorry went on:

"_I_ think that if people with tender hearts would remember their

sisters sometimes, it would be--"

"What do you mean?" interrupted the astonished Ellen Eliza, releasing

the now struggling bird as she spoke.

Dorry laid her hand kindly on the little girl's shoulder.

"I'll tell you," she said. "If I were you, I'd help Charity more. I'd

take care of this dear little brother sometimes. Don't you notice how

very often she is obliged to stay from school to help with the work, and

how discouraged she feels about her lessons?"

"No!" answered Ellen Eliza, with wide-open eyes. "I didn't ever notice

that. I think it's nice to stay home from school. But, anyhow, Charity

wouldn't trust me. She dotes on Jamie so. She's always been afraid I'd

let him fall."

Dorry smiled.

"Oh, that was long ago, Ellen. Jamie can walk now, you know, and if you

look after him sometimes, you'll soon be able to help Charity

wonderfully."

"All right!" was Ellen Eliza's cordial answer. "I'll do it. Somehow, I

never thought of it. But I often help Mother. She says I'm the

best-hearted of all the children, and so I am. You see if I don't help

Charity after this."

The conversion seemed too sudden to be very lasting; but Ellen Eliza,

who was really sincere, proceeded at once to put her new resolution into

practice. To be sure, her renowned tender heart did not make her all at

once an experienced housemaid, seamstress, and nurse, as Charity was;

but from that day it made her, at intervals, a willing little

hand-maiden, and so gave her sister many a leisure hour for reading and

study. More than this, Ellen Eliza and Dorry became close friends in

Charity's behalf, and one thing led to another, until Charity actually

attended school regularly. She was behind most of the scholars, of

course; but very often she spent an hour in the Cosey Corner, where

Dorry helped her to study her lessons. Her progress was remarkable.

"You make everything so beautifully plain, I can't help improving," she

would say to Dorry. And Dorry would laugh and protest that the teacher

was learning as much as the pupil, and that they were a wonderful pair,

anyway.

All this while, Charity, bright and hopeful, was doing a goodly share

of house duties, and making the Danby home more sunny with her

happiness. Little Jamie was her delight, as she was his; but she was no

longer jaded and discouraged. Ellen Eliza looked at her with pride, and

willingly submitted to the school teaching that Charity, in turn, was

able to give her.

"I can't bear 'rithmetic," was the tender-hearted one's comment, "but I

have to learn my tables, else Charity'd worry, and Dorry wouldn't like

it. And jography's nice, 'cause Pa likes me to tell him about it, when

he comes home. Soon's I get big, I mean to make Helen and Is'bella learn

their lessons like everything!"

Alas! The new educational movement met with a sudden but temporary check

in the shape of the measles. One fine day, that unwelcome visitant came

into the house, and laid its hand on poor little Helen. In a few days,

Isabella and Jamie were down beside her--not very ill, but all three

just ill enough to require a darkened room, careful nursing, and a

bountiful supply of Dorry's willing oranges.

This was why Charity, for a time, was cut off from her studies, and why

she was quite taken by surprise when word came to her of the G. B. C.,

and that she was to join it, as soon as the little ones could spare her.

You have seen Charity botanizing on the hill-side with the other girls,

but to understand her zeal, you should have heard her defend the science

against that sarcastic brother of hers--Daniel David. In vain that

dreadful boy hung dried stalks and dead branches all about her room, and

put dandelions in her tea cup, and cockles in her hair brush--pretending

all the while that he was a good boy bringing "specimens" to his dear

sister. In vain he challenged every botanical remark she made, defying

her to prove it. She always was equal to the occasion in spirit, if not

in knowledge.

One Saturday morning, though, she had her triumph, and it was an event

to be remembered. Daniel David had listened, with poorly concealed

interest, while Charity was describing a flower to Ellen Eliza,--how it

has calyx, corolla, stamens, and pistils; how some flowers have not all

these parts, but that _all_ flowers have pistils and stamens,--when he,

as usual, challenged her to "prove it."

"Very well," said Charity, with dignity, and yet a little uneasily; "you

bring the flowers, and I think I can satisfy Your Majesty."

Out he ran, and in a moment he came back, bearing defiantly a fine

red-clover blossom.

"Ha, my lady!" he said, as he handed it to her. "There's the first

flower I came to; now let's see you find your pistils and stamens and

thingamies."

Instead of replying at once, Charity looked long and silently at the

pretty flower in her hand. She seemed rather puzzled and crestfallen.

Daniel David laughed aloud; even Mrs. Danby and the poetic Amanda

smiled.

"Oh!" said Charity, at last, with an air of great relief. "I see it now.

How funny! I never thought of it before; but the clover-blossom isn't

_one_ flower at all--it's a good many flowers!"

"Ho! ho!" cried Daniel David. "That's a good one! You can't get out of

it in that way, my lady. Can she, Ma?"

Ma didn't know. None of the rest knew; but they all crowded about

Charity, while, with trembling fingers, she carefully pulled the blossom

to pieces, and discovered that every piece was a flower. "See!" she

exclaimed, eagerly. "Dozens of them, and every single one

complete,--pistil and stamens and all! Oh, my! Isn't it wonderful?"

"I surrender," said Daniel David.

"But you've helped me to find out something that I didn't know before,"

said the enthusiastic sister, forgiving in an instant all his past

taunting. "I wonder if Dorothy knows it. Let's go right over and ask

her."

"Agreed," said Daniel David. "Wait till I dress up a bit." Off he ran,

whistling, and in fifteen minutes he and Charity were with Dorry in the

Reed sitting-room, examining the separated, tiny clover-flowers through

Donald's microscope.

Dorothy explained to them that the clover-blossom or head is a compound

flower, because a head is made up of many flowerets, each complete in

itself.

But when she went further, and told them that not only the clover, but

every dandelion and daisy in the field is made up of many flowers, even

Charity appeared incredulous, saying: "What! Do you mean to say that the

daisy, with its yellow centre and lovely white petals, is not a flower?"

"No, I don't mean that," said Dorry. "Of course, the daisy is a flower.

But it is a compound flower. What you call white petals are not exactly

petals. Anyhow, the yellow centre is made up of hundreds of very small

flowers. That's what I mean. I have seen them magnified, and they look

like yellow lilies."

Daniel David hardly dared to say "prove it" to so elegant a creature as

Dorry, but his countenance was so expressive of doubt that the president

of the G. B. C. at once proposed that he should go and gather a

dandelion and a daisy, for them to pull to pieces and then examine the

parts under the microscope.

All of which would have come to pass had not Donald rushed into the

house at that moment, calling:

"Dorry! Dorry! Come up on the hill! We're going to set up the targets."

CHAPTER XX.

THE SHOOTING-MATCH.

THE boys were to have a shooting-match.

The targets, eight in number, which had been made by the boys a few days

before, were really fine affairs. They were painted on sheets of strong

pasteboard, and were each about eighteen inches in diameter. Every

circle, from the bull's-eye to the outer ring, was carefully made out,

and all the targets were of exactly the same measurements. Eight rough

tripods already awaited them at the shooting-range, and each tripod had

its upright piece of eighteen-inch plank at the top, to which a

pasteboard target was now to be firmly fastened.

On any ordinary occasion one or two tripods would have been sufficient,

but on this special day there was to be a real "match," and a target to

each man would be required, so that the contestants could show a clear

record of every shot. Experience had proved this to be the best plan.

The spot selected for the shooting-range was well adapted to the

purpose. It was a plateau or broad strip of level land, forming the

summit of the long slope that rose from the apple-orchard back of the

Reed mansion. At the rear or eastern limit of this level land was a

steep, grassy ridge, called by the D's the second hill.

Perhaps you will see the plateau more clearly if you read this

description which Dorry afterward wrote in a letter to a friend at

boarding-school:

"Don and the boys have made a rustic summer-house

by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the

house. It's so high up that you can look across

our place from it, and see the lake in front, and

the village far down at the left. It is beautiful,

at sunset, looking from the summer-house, for then

the lake sometimes seems to be on fire, and the

trees in the orchard between us and the road send

long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if

they were alive. You see we really have two hills,

and these are separated or joined, whichever you

please, by a long level strip more than a hundred

feet wide, forming a grassy terrace. I often

imagine a long row of enormous giants resting

there on the grass side by side, sitting on the

great wide level place, with their backs leaning

against the second hill, and their feet reaching

nearly to the edge of the first hill. Now, I hope

you understand. If you don't you will when you

come here to visit me this fall. Well, it was on

this level ground that we had the shooting-match

I'm going to tell you about, and where something

happened that I'll never, never forget as long as

I live."

While Don and Ed, assisted by the doughty Daniel, are at work setting up

the row of targets close to the base of the second hill, so that stray

bullets may be safely buried in the soft earth-wall, and while Dorry and

Charity are watching the boys from the shady summer-house, we may look

into Mr. Reed's study.

He is sitting in his arm-chair by the window, but the warm breeze

stealing through the closed blinds is not lulling him to repose; his

face is troubled, and he holds something in his hand which he is

studying intently, though it seems to give him no satisfaction. It is a

small gold chain or necklace, with an old-fashioned square clasp. On a

graceful mahogany stand close by are several articles carefully laid

together near an open box, as though he had been examining them also.

They were there when Donald knocked at the door, a few moments ago, to

ask his uncle to come up and see the arrangements for the

shooting-match. But Mr. Reed, without unlocking the door, had said he

was very busy, and begged Don to excuse him.

"Certainly, Uncle; but I'm sorry," Don had replied, and even while

trudging up the hill with the targets his mind had been busy.

"What is the matter? Something is troubling Uncle George yet. I've

noticed it very much of late. There's more to be told, and I must soon

have a good square talk with him about it. There's no use in putting it

off for ever.--We can't excuse him from the match though. Why, it would

spoil the whole thing not to have Uncle see it.--Wouldn't it, Dot?" he

asked aloud, as Dorry at that moment joined him.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Why, not to have Uncle here at the match."

"I don't understand," she said, looking puzzled.

"Why, the study door's locked and he's very busy. I was just thinking it

would be a great shame if he shouldn't come up this afternoon at all."

"What a ridiculous idea!" said Dorry, with a light laugh. "Why, of

course, Uncle will come. I'll bring him myself."

And she did.

Of all the merry company that came trooping up the green slope to the

shooting-range that afternoon, not a brighter, happier-looking pair was

seen than Mr. Reed and Dorry, as they joined the eager crowd of boys and

girls. The little maid evidently had chased away his troubles for that

day.

Donald was too busy to do much more than glance at them, but that glance

did him good; his hearty "Ho, Uncle!" did Mr. Reed good, too.

After a careful inspection of the arrangements, and a few words with Don

and the other boys concerning the necessary rules and restrictions for

the general safety, Mr. Reed retired to the rustic seat of honor that

had been prepared for him. The other spectators stood near by, or

settled themselves comfortably upon the turf.

Sailor Jack stood at a respectful distance with the smallest youngsters

about him, explaining to them that they'd best "stand close, and keep a

sharp lookout; for dry land was a pesky dang'rous place at all times,

and now, with bullets flyin' about there was no tellin' what might

happen. But if they wanted to see right clever shootin', they could just

wait a bit; for Master Donald had the sharpest eye he ever see'd in any

youngster on sea or shore."

There were to be eight contestants. All had arrived excepting Ben

Buster. He had been invited to shoot, but had loftily replied that he

had other affairs on hand, and he'd come if he could; and anyhow, they'd

best have a substitute ready.

Mr. Reed's two rifles and Don's and Ed Tyler's were the only fire-arms

to be used; for Mr. Reed had objected to a fully equipped party of young

gunners ranging across his estate. But they were not like Creedmoor

shooters, who must not only use their own special rifles, but must clean

them after every shot. The Nestletown boys were used to trying borrowed

weapons, and though a few had grumbled at a fellow not being allowed to

bring his own gun, the spirit of sport prevailed, and every face wore a

look of eager interest in the occasion.

Ben Buster was missing, but a substitute was soon found, and the match

began in earnest, four on a side,--the Reds and the Blues,--each wearing

ribbon badges of their respective color.

_The Blues._ _The Reds._

EDWARD TYLER, HENRY JONES,

BARRY OUTCALT, WILL BURROUGHS,

THEODORE HART, FRANK HENDERSON,

"BEN BUSTER." DONALD REED.

Dorry had made the four red rosettes and Josie Manning the four blue

ones. Besides these, Josie had contributed, as a special prize to the

best marksman, a beautiful gold scarf-pin, in the form of a tiny rifle,

and the winner was thenceforth to be champion shot of the club, ready to

hold the prize against all comers.

Ed Tyler had carefully marked off the firing line at a distance of

forty paces, or about one hundred feet from the targets; and it had been

agreed that the eight boys should fire in regular order,--first a Blue,

then a Red, one shot at a turn, until each had fired fifteen times in

all. This was a plan of their own, "so that no fellow need wait all day

for his turn." In the "toss-up" for the choice of targets and to decide

the order of shooting, the Reds had won; and they had chosen to let the

Blues lead off.

As Ed Tyler was a "Blue," and Don a "Red," they found themselves

opponents for once. Both were considered "crack shots," but Don soon

discovered that he had a more powerful rival in another of the

"Blues"--one Barry Outcalt, son of the village doctor. It soon became

evident that the main contest lay between these two, but Don had gained

on his competitor in the sixth round by sending a fourth bullet into the

bull's-eye, to Barry's second, when Ben Buster was seen strolling up the

hill. Instantly his substitute, a tall, nervous fellow, nicknamed

Spindle, proposed to resign in Ben's favor, and the motion was carried

by acclamation,--the Blues hoping everything, and the Reds fearing

nothing, from the change.

Master Buster was so resolute and yet comical, in his manner, that

everyone felt there would be fun if he took part. Seeing how matters

stood as to the score, he gave a knowing wink to Barry Outcalt, and said

he "didn't mind pitchin' in." He had never distinguished himself at

target practice, but he had done a good deal of what Dorry called

"_real_ shooting" in the West. Besides, he was renowned throughout the

neighborhood as a successful rabbit-hunter.

Shuffling to his position, he stood in such a shambling, bow-legged

sort of an attitude that even the politest of the girls smiled; and

those who were specially anxious that the Reds should win felt more than

ever confident of success.

If Don had begun to flatter himself that it was to be an easy victory,

he was mistaken. He still led the rest; but for every good shot he made

after that, Ben had already put a companion hole, or its better, in his

own target. The girls clapped; the boys shouted with excitement. Every

man of the contestants felt the thrill of the moment.

The Blues did their best; and with Outcalt and Ben on that side, Don

soon found that he had heavy work to do. Moreover, just at this stage of

the shooting, one of the Reds seemed to contract a sudden ambition to

dot the extreme outer edge of his target. This made the Blues radiant,

and would have disconcerted the Reds but for Don's nerve and pluck. He

resolved that, come what might, he would keep cool; and his steadiness

inspired his comrades.

"Crack!" went Don's rifle, and the bull's-eye winked in response. A

perfect shot!

"Crack!" went Ed's, beginning a fresh round, and _his_ bull's-eye didn't

wink. The second ring, however, showed the bullet's track.

"Crack!" The next Red left his edge-dot on the target, as usual.

"Crack!" went Outcalt's rifle, and the rim of the bull's-eye felt it.

Will Burrough's bullet went straight to the left edge of the centre.

Hart, the third Blue, sent a shot between targets, clean into the

earth-wall.

"Crack!" went the next Red. Poor Henderson! His target made no sign.

Ben Buster, the Blue, now put in his third centre shot. He was doing

magnificently.

In this round, and in the next, Donald hit the centre, but it was plain

that his skill alone would not avail to win the match, unless his

comrades should "brace up," and better their shots; so he tried a little

generalship. He urged each of the three in turn not to watch the score

of the enemy at all, nor to regard the cheers of the Blues, but to give

attention solely to making his own score as high as possible. This

advice helped them, and soon the Reds once more were slightly ahead of

the Blues, but the advantage was not sufficient to insure them a

victory. As the final rounds drew near, the interest became intense.

Each marksman was the object of all eyes, as he stepped up to the

firing-line, and the heat of the contest caused some wild shooting; yet

the misses were so evenly divided between the two companies that the

score remained almost a tie.

Ed Tyler advanced to the firing-line. His shot gave the Blues' score a

lift.

Now for the rim-dotter. He pressed his lips together, braced every

nerve, was two whole minutes taking aim, and this time put his dot very

nearly in the centre!

Outcalt was bewildered. He had been so sure Jones would hit the rim, as

usual, that now he seemed bound to do it in Jones's stead. Consequently,

his bullet grazed the target and hid its face in the earth-wall.

The second Red fired too hastily, and failed.

Third Blue--a bull's eye!

Third Red--an "outer."

Ben Buster stepped to the line. The Blues cheered as he raised his gun.

He turned with a grand bow, and levelled his piece once more. But

triumph is not always victory. His previous fine shooting had aroused

his vanity, and now the girls' applause quite flustered him. He missed

his aim! Worse still, not being learned in the polite art of mastering

his feelings, he became vexed, and in the next round actually missed his

target entirely.

Poor shooting is sometimes "catching." Now, neither Reds nor Blues

distinguished themselves, until finally only one shot was left to be

fired on each side; and, so close was the contest, those two shots would

decide the day.

It lay between Ben Buster and Donald.

Each side felt sure that its champion would score a bull's-eye, and if

both should accomplish this, the Reds would win by two counts. But if

Ben should hit the bull's-eye, and Don's bullet should fall outside of

even the very innermost circle, the Blues would be the victors. It was

simply a question of nerve. Ben Buster, proud of his importance, marched

to position, feeling sure of a bull's-eye. But, alas, for

over-confidence! The shot failed to reach that paradise of bullets, but

fell within the first circle, and so near the bull's-eye that it was

likely to make the contest a tie, unless Donald should score a centre.

Don had now achieved the feat of gaining nine bull's-eyes out of a

possible fifteen. He must make it ten, and that with a confusing chorus

of voices calling to him: "Another bull's-eye, Don!" "One more!" "He

can't do it!" "Fire lower!" "Fire higher!" "Don't miss!"

It was a thrilling moment, and any boy would have been excited. Don was.

He felt his heart thump and his face flush, as he stepped up to the

firing-line. Turning for an instant he saw Dorry looking at him proudly,

and as she caught his glance, she gave her head a saucy, confident

little toss as if sure that he would not miss.

"Ay! ay! Dot," said Don under his breath; and, reassured by her

confidence, he calmly raised the gun to his shoulder and took careful

aim.

It seemed an age to the spectators before the report broke upon the

sudden hush of expectation. Then, those who were watching Don saw him

bend his head forward with a quick motion, and for a second peer

anxiously at the target. Then he drew back carelessly, but with a

satisfaction that he could not quite conceal.

A few moments later, the excited Reds came running up, wildly waving

Don's target in their arms. His last bullet had been the finest shot of

the day, having struck the very centre of the bull's-eye. Even Ben

cheered. The Reds had won. Donald was the acknowledged champion of the

club.

But it was trying to three of the Reds, and to the Blues worse than the

pangs of defeat, to see that pretty Josie Manning pin the little golden

rifle on the lapel of Donald's coat.

Little he thought, amid the cheering and the merry breaking-up that

followed, how soon his steadiness of hand would be taxed in earnest!

Mr. Reed, after pleasantly congratulating the winning side and

complimenting the Blues upon being so hard to conquer, walked quickly

homeward in earnest conversation with Sailor Jack.

CHAPTER XXI.

DANGER.

THE company slowly dispersed. Some of the young folk cut across lots to

their homes; others, remembering errands yet to be attended to in the

village, directed their course accordingly. And finally, a group of five

boys, including Donald and Ed Tyler, started off, being the last to

leave the shooting-range. They were going down the hill toward the

house, talking excitedly about the match, and were just entering the

little apple-orchard between the hill and the house, when they espied,

afar off, a large dog running toward them.

The swiftness and peculiar gait of the animal attracted their attention,

and, on a second look, they noted how strangely the creature hung its

head as it ran.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Don, "there's something wrong there. See! He's

frothing at the mouth. It's a mad dog!"

"That's so!" cried Ed. "Hurry, boys! Make for the trees!"

A glance told them plainly enough that Don was right. This was a

terrible foe, indeed, for a party of boys to encounter. But the

apple-trees were about them, and all the boys, good and bad climbers

alike, lost not a moment in scrambling up into the branches.

All but Donald: he, too, had started for one of the nearest trees, when

suddenly it occurred to him that the girls had not all left the second

hill. Most of them had quitted the range in a bevy, when the match was

over; but two or three had wandered off to the summer-house, under the

apple-tree, where they had been discussing the affairs and plans of the

Botany Club. Don knew they were there, and he remembered the old ladder

that leaned against the tree; but the dog was making straight for the

hill, and would be upon them before they could know their danger! Could

he warn them in time? He would, at least, try. With a shout to his

companions: "The girls! the girls!" he turned and ran toward the hill at

his utmost speed, the dog following, and the boys in the trees gazing

upon the terrible race, speechless with dread.

Donald felt that he had a good start of his pursuer, however, and he had

his gun in his hand; but it was empty. Luckily, it was a

repeating-rifle; and so, without abating his speed, he hastily took two

cartridges from his jacket and slipped them into the chamber of the gun.

"I'll climb a tree and shoot him!" he said to himself, "if only I can

warn the girls out of the way."

"Girls! Girls!" he screamed. But as he looked up, he saw, descending the

hill and sauntering toward him, his sister and Josie Manning, absorbed

in earnest conversation.

At first he could not utter another sound, and he feared that his knees

would sink under him. But the next instant he cried out with all his

might:

"Back! Back! Climb the tree, for your lives! Mad dog! Mad dog!"

The two girls needed no second warning. The sight of the dreadful object

speeding up the slope in Donald's tracks was enough. They ran as they

never had run before, reached the tree in time, and, with another girl

whom they met and warned, clambered, breathless, up the ladder to the

sheltering branches.

Then all their fears centred upon Donald, who by this time had reached

the plateau just below them, where the shooting-match had been held. He

turned to run toward the apple-tree, when, to the horror of all, his

foot slipped, and he fell prostrate. Instantly he was up again, but he

had not time to reach the tree. The dog already was over the slope, and

was making toward him at a rapid, swinging gait, its tongue out, its

bloodshot eyes plainly to be seen, froth about the mouth, and the jaws

opening and shutting in vicious snaps.

Dorry could not stand it; she started to leave the tree, but fell back

with closed eyes, while the other girls clung, trembling, to the

branches, pale and horrified.

To the credit of Donald be it said, he faced the danger like a man. He

felt that the slightest touch of those dripping jaws would bring death,

but this was the time for action.

Hastily kneeling behind a stump, he said to himself: "Now, Donald Reed,

they say you're a good shot. Prove it!" And steadying his nerves with

all the resolution that was in him, he levelled his rifle at the

advancing dog and fired.

To his relief, the poor brute faltered and dropped--dead, as Don

thought. But it was only wounded; and, staggering to its feet again, it

made another dash forward.

[Illustration: "DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE AND FIRED."]

Don was now so encouraged, so thankful that his shot had been true,

that, as he raised his gun a second time, he scarcely realized his

danger, and was almost as cool as if firing at the target on the range,

although the dog was now barely a dozen feet away. This was the last

chance. The flash leaped from his rifle, and at the same moment Donald

sprang up and ran for the tree as fast as his legs could carry him. But,

before the smoke had cleared, a happy cry came from the girls in the

tree. He glanced back, to see the dog lying motionless upon the ground.

Quickly reloading his gun, and never taking his finger from the trigger,

he cautiously made his way back to the spot. But there was nothing to

fear now. He found the poor brute quite dead, its hours of agony over.

The group that soon gathered around looked at it and at one another

without saying a word. Then Dorry spoke: "Stand back, everybody! It's

dangerous to go too near. I've often heard that."

A hint was sufficient. Indeed, the shuddering girls already had turned

away, and the boys now drew aside, though with rather an incredulous

air.

"It ought to be buried deep, just where it lies," suggested Ed; and

Donald, nodding a silent assent, added, aloud: "Poor fellow! Whose dog

can he be?"

"Why it's our General!" cried one of the boys. "As sure as I live it is!

He was well yesterday." Then, turning pale, he added: "Oh, I must go

right home--"

"Go with him, some of you fellows," Don said, gravely; "and Dot, suppose

you run and let Uncle know. Ask him if we shall bury it right here."

"He will say 'yes,' of course," cried Dot, excitedly, as she started

off. "I'll send Jack right back with spades."

"Yes; but tell Uncle!" Don shouted after her.

CHAPTER.

A FROLIC ON THE WATER.

DONALD had won the gratitude of many Nestletown fathers and mothers, and

had raised himself not a little in the estimation of the younger folk,

by his encounter with the rabid dog. That it was a case of hydrophobia

was settled by the testimony of some wagoners, who had seen the poor

animal running across the road, but who, being fearful of having their

horses bitten, had not attempted to stop him. Though all felt sorry for

"General," everybody rejoiced that he had been put out of his misery,

and that he had not bitten any one in his mad run through the fields.

As the summer advanced, and base-ball and running-matches proved to be

too warm work for the season, the young folk naturally took to the

water. Swimming and boating became the order of the day, and the night

too; for, indeed, boats shot hither and thither through many a boy's

sleep, confounding him with startling surprises and dreamland defeats

and victories. But the lake sports of their waking hours were more under

control. Donald and Ed Tyler, as usual, were among the most active in

various contests with the oars; and as Donald believed that no event was

absolutely complete if Dorry were not among either the actors or the

spectators, boat-racing soon grew to be as interesting to the girls as

to the boys.

The races usually were mild affairs--often impromptu, or sometimes

planned in the morning and carried into effect the same afternoon. Now

and then, something more ambitious was attempted: boys in rowing suits

practised intently for days beforehand, while girls, looking on, formed

their own not very secret opinions as to which rowers were most worthy

of their support. Some went so far as to wear a tiny bit of ribbon by

way of asserting allegiance to this or that crew, which sported the same

color in cap, uniform, or flag. This, strange to say, did not act in the

least as "a damper" on the pastime; even the fact that girls became

popular as coxswains did not take the life out of it; all of which, as

Dorry said, served to show the great hardihood and endurance of the

boy-character.

After a while, Barry Outcalt, Benjamin Buster, and three others

concocted a plot. The five held meetings in secret to complete their

arrangements, and these meetings were enlivened with much smothered

laughter. It was to be a "glorious joke." A boat-race, of course; and

there must be a great show of previous practice, tremendous rivalry, and

pressing competition, so that a strong feeling of partisanship would be

aroused; while in truth, the race itself was to be a sham. The boats

were to reach the goal at the same moment, nobody was to win, yet every

one was to claim the victory; the air was to be rent with cries of

"foul!" and spurious shouts of triumph, accompanied by vehement demands

for a "fresh try." Then a second start was to be made--One, two, three,

and off! All was to go well at first, and when the interest of the

spectators was at its height, every eye strained and every heart almost

at a standstill with excitement, two of the boats were to "foul," and

the oarsman of one, in the most tragic and thrilling manner, was to fall

over into the astonished lake. Then, amid the screams of the girls and

scenes of wild commotion, he was to be rescued, put into his empty boat

again, limp and dripping--and then, to everybody's amazement,

disregarding his soaked garments and half-drowned state, he was suddenly

to take to the oars in gallant style, and come in first at the close,

rowing magnificently.

So ran the plot--a fine one truly. The five conspirators were

delighted, and each fellow solemnly promised to stand by the rest, and

not to breathe a word about it until the "sell" should be accomplished.

So far, so good. Could the joke be carried out successfully? As the lake

was public property, it was not easy for the two "fouling" boys to find

opportunities for practising their parts. To make two boats collide at a

given instant, so as to upset one and spill its occupant in a purely

"accidental" way, required considerable dexterity. Ben Buster had a

happy thought. Finding himself too clumsy to be the chief actor, he

proposed that they should strengthen their force by asking Donald Reed

to join the conspiracy. He urged that Don, being the best swimmer among

the boys, was therefore best fitted to manage the fall into the water.

Outcalt, on his part, further suggested that Ed Tyler was too shrewd to

be a safe outsider. He might suspect, and spoil everything. Better make

sure of this son of a lawyer by taking him into the plan, and appointing

him sole judge and referee.

Considerable debate followed--the _pros_ urging that Don and Ed were

just the fellows wanted, and the _cons_ insisting that neither of the

two would be willing to take part. Ben, as usual, was the leading

orator. He was honestly proud of Don's friendship, and as honestly

scornful of any intimation that Don's better clothes and more elegant

manners enhanced or hindered his claims to the high Buster esteem. Don

was a good fellow, he insisted,--the right sort of a chap,--and that was

all there was about it. All they had to do was to let him, Ben, fetch

Don and Ed round that very day, and he'd guarantee they'd be found true

blue, and no discounting.

This telling eloquence prevailed. It was voted that the two new men

should be invited to join. And join they did.

Though Donald generally disliked practical joking, he yielded this time.

As nobody was to be hurt, he entered heartily into the plot, impelled

both by his native love of fun and by a brotherly willingness to play an

innocent joke upon Dorry, who, with Josie Manning, he knew would surely

be among the most interested of all the victimized spectators.

A number of neat circulars, announcing the race and the names of the six

contestants, with their respective colors, were written by the boys, and

after being duly signed by Ed Tyler, as referee, were industriously

distributed among the girls and boys.

On the appointed afternoon, therefore, a merry crowd met at a deserted

old house on the lake-shore. It had a balcony overlooking the place

where the race was to begin and end.

This old building was the rendezvous of young Nestletown during boating

hours; indeed, it was commonly called "the boat-house." Having been put

up long years before the date of our story, it had fallen into a rather

dilapidated condition when the Nestletown young folk appropriated it;

but it had not suffered at their hands. On the contrary, it had been

carefully cleared of its rubbish; and with its old floors swept clean,

its broken windows flung open to air and sunlight, and its walls

decorated with bright-colored sun-bonnets and boating flags, it

presented quite a festive appearance when the company assembled in it on

the day of the race.

Fortunately, its ample piazza was strong, in spite of old age and the

fact that its weather-stained and paintless railing had for years been

nicked, carved, and autographed by the village youngsters. It was

blooming enough, on this sunny Saturday, with its freight of expectant

girls and boys, many of the first-named wearing the colors of their

favorites among the contestants.

The doughty six were in high spirits--every man of them having a

colored 'kerchief tied about his head, and sporting bare, sinewy arms

calculated to awe the beholder. Don was quite superb. So were Ben Buster

and young Outcalt. Many a girl was deeply impressed by their air of

gravity and anxiety, not suspecting that it was assumed for the

occasion, while the younger boys looked on in longing admiration. Ed, as

starter, umpire, judge, referee, and general superintendent, rowed out

with dignity, and anchored a little way from shore. The six, each in his

shining boat, rowed into line, taking their positions for the start. The

stake-boat was moored about a third of a mile up the lake, and the

course of the race was to be from the starting-line to the stake-boat,

around it, and back.

The balcony fluttered and murmured as Ed Tyler shouted to the six

rowers, waiting with uplifted oars:

"Are you ready?--ONE, TWO, THREE--GO!"

On the instant, every oar struck the water, the six boats crossed the

line together, and the race began.

No flutter in the balcony now; the spectators were too intent.

Not for a moment could they imagine that it was not a genuine race.

Every man appeared to bend to his work with a will. Soon Ben Buster,

with long, sweeping strokes, went laboriously ahead; and now Outcalt and

another passed him superbly, side by side. Then Don's steady, measured

stroke distanced the three, and as he turned the stake-boat his victory

was evident, not only to Dorothy, but to half the spectators. Not yet. A

light-haired, freckled fellow in a blue 'kerchief, terribly in earnest,

spun around the stake-boat and soon left Don behind; then came the

quick, sharp stroke of Ben Buster nerved for victory, closely followed

by Steuby Butler, who astonished everybody; and then, every man rowing

as if by super-human exertion, inspired by encouraging cries from the

balcony, they crowded closer and closer.

"Ben's ahead!" cried the balcony, confusedly.

"No, Donald Reed has gained on him!"

"Don't you see! it's Outcalt! Outcalt will win!"

"No, I tell you it's Butler!"--And then, before any one could see how it

was done, the boats, all six of them, were at the line, oars were

flourished frantically, the judge and referee was shouting himself

hoarse, and the outcry and tumult on the water silenced the spectators

on the land. Cries of: "Not fair!" "Not fair!" "It won't do!" "Have it

again!" "Hold up!" "I won't stand such work!" culminated in riotous

disorder. Seven voices protesting, shouting, and roaring together made

the very waters quiver.

But Tyler was equal to the occasion. Standing in his boat, in the

identical position shown in the picture of "Washington Crossing the

Delaware," he managed to quiet the tumult, and ordered that the race

should be rowed over again.

Once more the boats were in line. Again the umpire shouted: "Are you

ready?" and again the crowd fluttered and murmured with expectation as

every boat dashed forward.

But what was this? Dorry and Josie, with flushed cheeks and sparkling

eyes, moving rapidly as they could among the crowding spectators, and

whispering urgent words that evidently produced a strong sensation.

Still the boats pressed on, every rower apparently outdoing himself, if

not outdoing everything else. If cheers and shouts had inspired them

before, the intense silence now was even more inspiring. Could anything

have succeeded better? With every show of exertion, the rascals managed

to slacken or quicken as the case required, until, when nearly home,

they were all close together.

[Illustration: THE CONSPIRATORS' PLOT IS CARRIED INTO EFFECT.]

It was glorious! They never had known such fun in their lives. Now for

the grand business!

Donald and Outcalt came together with a crash--a perfect "foul!" One

masterly effort--over went Don's boat and over went Don, headlong into

the water!

The boys in the other boats did beautifully, crowding about and, in

spite of Don's wild struggles, catching him with oars and arms, never

hearing the screams of the girls in the suppressed mirth and wild

activity of the moment, but getting Don into his boat again, limp and

dripping; and finally, with real dramatic zeal, carrying out their

entire plan--too busy and delighted with success to note its effect upon

the crowd of spectators. Everything worked to perfection. Don, scorning

his half-drowned state, dripping and uncomfortable as he was, had sprung

suddenly to his oars, and in dead earnest had won the race, against

every mock-earnest competitor, and--

What _do_ you think?

When those six oarsmen, including the victor, looked up to receive the

acclamations of the crowd, white with the waving of pocket-handkerchiefs,

they heard only--silence; saw nothing but an empty piazza. Not a

spectator was to be seen--not even a face at a window--not a single eye

peering through a crack. Worse than all, their judge and referee was in

the bottom of his boat, kicking with merriment. He had strength only to

point to the boat-house and gasp, between his bursts of laughter:

"Not a soul there!--they found us out!--went off before Don's ducking!"

The boat-house was, in truth, deserted. After the mysterious movements

and whisperings of Dorry and Josie, every boy and girl had sped away on

tiptoe; and down in a hollow grove near the road, where they could not

even see the water, they were chatting and giggling and having the very

best kind of a time--all because they had turned the tables on the

gallant seven.

It was now well understood by these spectators who had deserted their

post, that a second mock race had been carried on without a single

eye-witness, and the thought was rapture. How much more they would have

enjoyed it had they known of the difficult "foul," of Donald's headlong

plunge, and of the subsequent frantic and exhaustive contest of rowing!

So much for carrying out one mock race and starting another in the

presence of somebody named Dorothy, who first had suspected and then had

been morally sure that those boys were playing a trick! When four of

them crossed the line at once, her suspicions were aroused. "I do

believe they're fooling!" she had said to herself, and then, remembering

certain mysterious conferences that Don and some others of the "seven"

had been holding, coupled with a sly look or two that she had seen

exchanged by the contestants, she had jumped to the correct conclusion.

As she afterwards expressed it to Ed Tyler, she had seen through it all

in a flash.

Misery loves company. Those seven boys, from that day, had a peculiar

tenderness for one another. They were linked by a hidden bond; and while

they laughed heartily at their own expense, and tacitly confessed

themselves beaten, they compelled all outsiders to be satisfied with

guessing and with hints of the catastrophe that somehow came to light.

Not one of them ever disclosed all the facts of the case,--the secret

sessions, the frequent upset-practisings on cloudy evenings, the

difficulty of the final performance, and the full sum of their defeat.

Ben, usually a kind brother, was sternness itself so far as the great

race was concerned. Not one of the juvenile Danbys dared to allude to it

in his august presence. Only on one occasion did he unbend, and that was

when little Fandy ventured to observe that he ought to have heard what

one of the girls had said about him in the race. This remark rankled

even in that stony bosom. The more Ben Buster tried not to care, the

more it tortured him. To make matters worse, he had betrayed himself too

soon to the sagacious Fandy. In vain the big brother cajoled the little

one; in vain, at cautious intervals, he tried the effect of indirect

bribes and hidden threats. The more he desired to know what that girl

had said, the more Fandy wouldn't tell him. At last he triumphed. In a

yielding moment, when Ben had been touchingly kind, the grateful

youngster let it out:

"You want t' know what that girl said? It was a compliment! She said:

'_How splendid your brother Ben can row!_' He! he! Now lend me your

gimlet just a minute!"

Ah, that dignified Ben! Not for the world would he have had the small

child know how those words thrilled him.

"Dorothy Reed said it! It sounds like her," was Ben's ecstatic thought;

but to poor Fandy's surprise and disappointment, he only muttered aloud:

"There, there, that's a good little boy. Go and play!"

[Illustration: BEN'S CIDER EXPERIENCE.]

Many a time after that, in the sanctity of the lonely fields, did Ben,

rather sheepishly, repeat to himself the bewitching phrase:

"How _splendid_ your brother Ben can row!"

Judge, then, of his feelings, when one Sunday in September, Master Fandy

whispered to him, rather loudly, while coming out of church, "There she

is" (pointing to a pretty little tot of seven summers)--"that's the very

girl who said it!"

Ben stared at her, speechless with disgust.

"I might have known," he thought, "that the little goose would call a

baby like that, a girl!"

So much for Ben's private feelings. Concerning the race, the six--among

themselves--enjoyed exceedingly the unexpected recoil of their little

joke. I say six, for in this matter Ed Tyler was unanimously suspected

by the others of being on the fence. They never could tell whether he

was laughing at them or with them. Donald was sure that it was the very

best thing he ever heard of in his life. Outcalt protested he wouldn't

have missed it for the world; and Ben Buster, laughing rather ruefully,

declared that he never knew the "beat of it" but once; and that was one

day when he had slipped into Jones's cider-yard and taken a good, long

drink, through a straw, from a barrel marked "sweet cider," as he

thought. "I tell you, fellows," was Ben's concluding remark, "if I

wasn't sold that time, I'll give in. I was so warm and thirsty that I

took a good, long pull before I found out that it wasn't cider at all,

but vinegar, sour enough to take a man's head off. What made it worse

was, the barrel was marked 'sweet-cider vinegar,' after all. It's a

blamed shame the way a fellow gets caught sometimes!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

YANKEE AND DOODLE.

DONALD and Dorothy exchanged but four words on the subject of the sham

race after it was over, but these were very expressive:

_Donald._ "Well, madam!"

_Dorothy._ "Well, sir!"

Their sparkling looks, Donald's tone of accusation and injured

innocence, Dorothy's playful, rather defiant, air of triumph, said the

rest. Uncle George, who was present at the interview, having previously

heard both sides of the story from the D's separately, was much amused.

In fact, he laughed aloud in quite an undignified manner, and so did

they.

The next day brought news of Dr. Lane, their old tutor, who had been

living for several months in South Carolina. He was better--indeed quite

well again, and having lately accepted the position of principal of the

boys' academy at F----, about ten miles from Nestletown, he proposed

taking up his abode there immediately.

"Oh, Don," said Dorry, as she folded the letter; "I've an idea!"

"I cannot believe it," exclaimed Don, in well-feigned surprise.

"Yes, but I have," she insisted. "Dr. Lane will be at F---- by Friday.

Let us ride over on Dood and Yankee and give him a welcome!"

"Agreed!"

Friday came, full of sunshine, and in a fresh, breezy way, as if to say,

"Now for the ride!"--at least, so it seemed to Dorry.

Lydia, who was shaking rugs over the wide piazza railing, was pleased to

salute Sailor Jack as he led the ponies, saddled and ready, to the door.

Fine ponies they were, too, large of their kind, glossy black, with

flowing tail and mane. Uncle George had given them to the D's, on the

Fourth of July of the previous summer; and in honor of the day they had

been named Yankee and Doodle. Yankee, being the more spirited, was given

to Don, and Doodle, by no means a lamb, became the special pride and

property of Dorry.

"Good-morrow to you, Mistress Blum!" said Jack, in a subdued though airy

way, returning Lydia's nod. "Are the middies ready?"

"If you mean the twins, I presume they are, Mr. Jack. Have you looked

carefully to Miss Dorothy's saddle?"

"Not extra," he answered, in an aggravating tone--first looking up at

the windows to be sure that none of the family were near; "think the

girth's 'most broke; 't ain't worth while to be too pertickler."

"Yes, it is; you'd better make sure of saddle and bridle too, I can

tell you. Miss Dorry'll ride twenty miles, and more, before sundown."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Sailor Jack, still bent on teasing her. "Hadn't

you better come down, Mistress Blum, an' see to it that the pony's legs

is on good and tight? It would be dreadful if one on 'em was to tumble

off, now."

Lydia laughed. "Oh, but you're a funny man, Mister Jack! Well, I

needn't worry. You're even worse about Miss Dorry than I am, bless

her!--Hush, here they are!"

Off went Jack's hat, though he had to hold the two bridle-reins with one

hand to accomplish it.

"Up-a-daisy!" he exclaimed, as Dorry, assisted by Donald, sprang lightly

to her saddle. "It's a splendid day for a ride, Miss!"

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, looking about her with bright, happy eyes, as

she stroked her pony's neck.

Uncle George came out upon the piazza. By this time Don was on Yankee's

back, dexterously making him appear as spirited as possible; whereat

Dorry's steed began to prance also.

"Good-by, Uncle! Good-by, Jack and Liddy!" cried Dorry, waving her whip

and looking back with a smiling face.

"Good-by!" shouted Don; and they cantered off--glad to be together, glad

to breathe the bright, clear air, glad at the prospect of a good gallop

over the hills.

Uncle George, Liddy, and Jack looked after them proudly, till the road

turned and the sound of hoofs died in the distance. Jack was the first

to speak.

"Ay! but they're a pretty pair, Capt'n!"

Mr. Reed nodded a happy assent.

"An' do you know, sir, I'm fancyin' of late they're growin' liker to one

another."

"Ah?" said Mr. Reed, well pleased. "In what way?"

"Why, in feature, sir, an' manners, an' most ev'ry way."

"Why shouldn't they favor one another," remarked Lydia--"bein' twins?

Yet, some way, I don't see it myself, sir, as plain as I might. Shall I

serve dinner on the back porch, Mr. George?"

"Well, yes, Lydia, as I shall be alone. The birds and trees will be good

company for me."

And so the three separated.

Meanwhile, the D's cantered on, happy as--I was going to say, as birds,

but they were happier even than birds; they were happy as happy brothers

and sisters.

For a while they galloped in silence, Don often going so far ahead that

he had to wait for Dorry to catch up; then, when the road was specially

pleasant and shady, they rode leisurely, side by side, laughing and

chatting. The day was so fine, and they saw so much to interest them,

and there were so many things to talk about, that the ten-mile ride to

F---- was accomplished almost before they were aware of it.

Leaving the ponies in the yard of the pretty hotel, to be fed and cared

for, they enjoyed a hearty luncheon, and then proceeded on foot to the

Academy near by--Dorry deftly carrying the train of her riding-habit

over her arm, and snapping her riding-whip softly as she tripped beside

her companion. Fortunately, the path was well shaded, and the dust had

been laid by showers of the night before.

Dr. Lane was surprised and delighted to see them so soon after his

arrival. He had many interesting things to tell them, and they in turn,

rather shyly but heartily, related the main incidents of the past

months, and gave him some account of their present course of study.

Then they all went through the Academy building, which, as it was

vacation, was now being cleaned and made ready for the fall term.

Globes, maps, blackboards, collections of minerals, electric machines,

patent desks, dining-room, and dormitory passed before them in rapid

succession, figuratively speaking; afterward they went up to the cupola

to see the view, and finally settled themselves on the large front porch

to rest.

Then, and not till then, they noticed a change. Light clouds were

gathering; the sun still was shining, but it was shining under

difficulties, as Dorry observed, and the air was heavy and sultry.

"It's going to rain, Professor," said Don, rising from his seat on the

steps of the porch. "I think we'll have to go now."

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, in her impulsive way; "we've no time to lose,

either. Good-by, Professor. What shall we say to Uncle for you?"

"Give Mr. Reed my hearty regards, and tell him I hope to see him at

Nestletown very soon."

"Yes, thank you," said Dorry, starting toward the gate. "Good-by. Come,

Donald, we may be able to get home before it rains hard."

The Professor joined her at once, and the three were soon at the hotel.

At first it seemed best to wait until the approaching shower should be

over; but, as the clouds grew no darker, and the ponies evidently were

ready for a brisk run, it was decided that they should try a race with

the shower, and see which could get home first.

The shower beat. They were not half-way home when, just after crossing

the railroad, with its cottage-like station in sight, the sky darkened

rapidly and a big drop fell upon Donald's nose.

"We're in for it!" he cried. "Whip up, Dot! We'll make for the station."

Reaching the station, and finding themselves still dry, in spite of the

warning thunder, they decided to hurry on to the next stopping-place.

This was Vanbogen's, a little country inn about half a mile farther,

where they could be housed if necessary, and the horses be sheltered

also. A sudden flash gave point to their determination. On they sped,

the lightning now dancing ahead of them, and the thunder rolling on

apace.

"It's a race for life," thought Dorry, in high spirits--so pleased to

have an adventure that she forgot to dread the threatening shower.

Yankee and Dood did nobly; abandoning their canter, they galloped on,

neck and neck, while their riders carried on a panting sort of

conversation concerning the new turn of things, and the prospects of

reaching home before dark.

"What mat--ter if--we don't?" said Dorry, her voice almost lost in the

rumbling thunder; "Yankee--and Dood--can find--the way--if it's--pitch

dark."

"But, Uncle--ex-pected--us by--"

"Well--he'll know--what keeps--us."

"Plucky girl!" thought Don, admiring her bright cheeks and graceful air

as she at that moment dashed by.

Yankee, on principle, never let Dood beat him. In the commotion of the

thunder and lightning, it seemed to Donald that a livelier race had

begun; but, the next instant he realized that Dorry's pony had halted,

and his own was some paces ahead.

Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something was the matter. Dood

limped painfully for a few steps, then stopped.

"He's hurt his foot," cried Dorry. "It wasn't a stumble; he tripped.

Poor Dood!" she added, as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her,

"you must go on now."

Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew lamer at every step. Don,

noticing that one of the pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted and

tried to take it off, but it would not come. A turn in the road

disclosed Vanbogen's not far away. By this time, slanting lines of rain

showed against the trees.

"It's going to storm in earnest, Dot; you'll get soaking wet!" said Don.

"Not I," chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit is water-proof. You'll be the

wet one. Hurry ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as we can. I

do hope he isn't hurt seriously. Oh, Don, do hurry!"

But Don wouldn't and Dood couldn't. If the shower had not paused to

take breath before making its grand dash, they certainly would have been

drenched.

As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the inn before the rain came

down in torrents.

"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding-skirt, as she sprang into the

bare hall, "our saddles will get soaked!" But a negro, in a blue-checked

jacket, already was leading the steeds to shelter.

It was a very shabby house at the best of times, but it was particularly

dreary now. Dorry was sure she never before had seen anything so dismal

as the damp little parlor into which Donald escorted her. The closed

blinds, the mouldy, bumpy sofa, the faded-green table-cover, the stained

matting, the low-spirited rocking-chair with one arm broken off, and the

cracked, dingy wall-paper oppressed her strangely.

"What a horrid place!" she exclaimed in an awe-struck whisper to Don, as

a flash of lightning shone through the blinds. "Let us go!"

"Don't mind it, Dot," he answered. "We'll start as soon as the shower is

over. Wait here awhile, and I'll run and see what we're to do about the

pony. Would you like to have a cup of hot tea?" he added, looking back

as he left the room.

"Mercy, no!" said Dorry, "not here!"

They both laughed. "It's fun, after all," thought the young girl as he

went out. "I don't mind anything as long as Don's around, the dear old

fellow!"

Vanbogen's seemed deserted. She had noticed a solitary hen stepping

daintily across the long wet stoop as she entered, and a woman, going up

stairs, had turned to stare at her. A sound of men's voices, too, had

reached her from a closed room opposite the parlor, yet she felt

strangely alone. For company's sake she examined some faded ambrotypes,

that stood upright in their half-opened cases on a table between the

windows. The ghastly things made her only more lonely.

At that moment, hearing a clicking sound, she raised her head, and saw a

man's face outside looking at her through the blinds. The slats closed

sharply, when she moved back.

"How nervous I am!" she thought, with a slight shiver. "A pretty

traveller I'd make!"

Donald soon came in.

"Here's a fine piece of business!" he said. "Dood has really injured his

foot in some way--sprained, I suppose. It is swollen, and evidently

pains him very much. I've sent for a man who claims to be a veterinary

surgeon. No, indeed, no use in your going out there, Dot; the men appear

to be doing all they can for him. It's out of the question for us to

travel with that pony to-night; the last train that stops at this

one-horse station has gone by, and I can't get a carriage anywhere."

"Can't you hire a horse, then, for yourself? Put my saddle on Yankee; I

can ride him."

"Can't get a horse, either. They've only one, and he's out for the whole

afternoon."

"Let's walk then. The shower is nearly over. It's only five miles."

"Good!" said Don. "But no--Yankee can carry you, and I'll trot

alongside on foot;" and he hastened out to have the side-saddle put on

Yankee.

To Dorry's amazement, Donald came back in a few minutes, looking flushed

and excited. "I've taken a room for you, Dot; come up stairs--quick."

"But I don't want a room. I--"

"Yes, you do; you'll need to rest. Come right up," he insisted in a low

voice, hastily locking the parlor door behind him, and almost pulling

her toward the stairs. "I'll tell you up there; come quick."

They ran up together. "What's the matter?" she asked on the way. "What

have you heard?"

"Oh, nothing at all," he said, as he stepped into a room shabby with

ragged matting and worn-out furniture; then, closing the door, he added:

"Dorry, you must go away from this place at once. Don't ask any

questions! Oh, it's nothing much, Dot," as he noticed her alarm; "but

this is a rough sort of place, you see, and of course I can't go away

and leave Dood here with these fellows. The sooner you get off, the

better. I'll bring Yankee round to the back door at the end of the hall,

so as not to attract attention. Lock your door while I'm gone, and when

I come back, hurry down with me, jump on Yankee, and be off without a

word."

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, half inclined to laugh, but he was gone.

She turned the key in the lock and ran to the window, pulling its

green-paper shade aside. Nothing to be seen but tumble-down

out-buildings, a dog-kennel, trampled grass, an empty clothes-line, and

a barrel or two.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed again. "Oh, there comes the pony."

Donald lost not a moment; but it seemed to Dorry that he never would

come up. Meantime she resolved that, happen what might, she would not go

and leave him. Unlocking the door, she stood with her hand upon the

knob, intending to discuss the matter with Don; but no sooner had his

hand touched the other side than somehow she found herself on the

stairs, in the hall, then on Yankee's back, and leaning to catch Don's

words.

"Careful, now, don't lose a moment! Send Jack to me at once, with Lady

and the buggy! Go!" Even after she had started, she still seemed to feel

the pressure of his hand upon hers. Never had she seen Don more

resolutely in earnest.

As she galloped through the open gateway, and passed the inn, she turned

and saw him in the hall, talking savagely to a man in a wet linen

duster, whose back was toward her.

"The idea of leaving Don here alone! I shall not go," she said, suddenly

pulling at the bridle. But Yankee, hungry for his supper, thought

otherwise. He determined that she should. After a momentary contest,

Dorry yielded, deciding to hurry home as fast as possible, and send Jack

to Don's relief.

The shower, which had held back for a while, now started afresh.

Yankee, with visions of a dry stall and bountiful supper before him,

went on his rapid way through the rain, troubling himself little about

Dood or Don, and quite unconscious of the disturbed state of his rider's

mind, in which anxious thoughts and surmises chased each other in quick

succession.

"I noticed that it was a rough place the moment we went in. Who were the

noisy men in the other room, I wonder? The man in the wet duster wasn't

one of them. What could Don have been saying to him? May be Dood had

broken a leg, and Don didn't like to tell me. Ridiculous idea, as if a

pony with a broken leg could go a step! May be Don's watch was stolen,

or he'd lost his pocket-book. But he could have told me _that_. Dear me,

he needn't have been so dreadfully afraid for me to stay there. It's

forlorn to be a girl, and have people think you can't stand anything.

Don can take care of himself, anyhow. I'd like to see any of those

fellows trying to hurt _him_,"--and here, by way of showing how very

much she would _like_ it, Dorry's cheek turned pale. "How foolish!

Probably he stayed for Dood's sake. Poor Dood! I hope he'll not be laid

up long; Jack could cure him quickly enough. Dear me, how it rains! Glad

my riding-habit is water-proof. Liddy will be frightened about me. I

suppose they think we're at F---- yet, waiting to ride home by

moonlight. How well Dr. Lane looks! But he has a fearfully

Greek-and-Latin expression. Can't help it, I suppose. Don knows nearly

as much Latin as Uncle, I do believe. Dear old Don! I How kind he is!

Oh, if anything should happen to him!" Here, Yankee, already speeding

bravely, received instructions to "get up," and then Dot, to her great

joy, spied a familiar horse and buggy in the distance, coming swiftly

toward her.

Lady was a fast mare when Sailor Jack held the reins.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DONALD.

DONALD _was_ talking rather savagely when Dorothy turned and saw him in

the hall as she galloped through the opened gateway. But the man in the

wet duster was not in the least vexed by Donald's manner. On the

contrary, he assumed an air of superiority, and called him "my boy."

"All the Reeds are impetuous," he had said lightly, as if apologizing

for this particular member of the family; "so we'll waive ceremony, my

boy. With your permission, as I said before, I'll step into the parlor

now, and have a little chat with the young lady."

"And as I said before," retorted Donald, "you'll do no such thing."

"Calm yourself," sneered the other. "It would be easy for me to get in

through the window, were it not that one hates to scare the pretty bird;

and as for the key--"

"As for the key," echoed Donald, who happened to have it in his

possession; "well, and what of the key?"

"Why, my boy," glancing toward Don's pocket, "it wouldn't tax a

six-footer like me overmuch to help himself to it; but, under the

circumstances, it might be wiser merely to tell mine host in yonder room

that an irate little manikin has taken it into his head to lock his

sister, as he calls her, in the public parlor, and refuses to let her

out."

"Insolent fellow!" exclaimed Donald, yet restraining his anger as well

as he could. "Look out what you say. Another word like that, and I'll

have you turned out of this place, neck and heels."

"Ha! ha! Pretty good. Well, as I was remarking, I've a word or two to

say to my young lady in there. Hold up! H-o-l-d up! No one is going to

kill her. Perhaps you're not aware I have a right there!"

"You have a right there, I'll admit, as a traveller," said Don; "but

just now, I ask you to stay outside."

"And I ask you to let me in," returned the six-footer, beginning to be

angry.

At any other time, Donald would not have parleyed a moment with the man,

but, as the reader may have surmised, he had reasons of his own for

prolonging the interview. He had planned well and worked quickly to get

Dorry off unobserved; and now that his strategy had succeeded, the next

point was to gain time for her to be far on her way before Eben

Slade--for he it was--should discover that Dorry was not safely locked

in the dingy parlor.

"I ask you to let me in," repeated the long, lank man, softening his

tone, "as one gentleman would ask another. May be I've more right to

talk to her than you have yourself."

"What do you mean, you rascal?"

"Thank you!" sneered Eben. "_Rascal_ is good. Pray, do you know my

name?"

"No, I do not; and I don't want to. It's enough that I recognize you;

and probably the less one knows about you, the better."

"May be so. But the time's gone by for that. My name's Eben Slade. _Now_

do you know why I want to go into that room? No? Well, I'll tell you,"

continued Eben Slade; "it's because I've more right to speak to that

girl than you have. It's because--Hi! hi! not so fast, young man,"

muttered Eben, restraining Donald with considerable effort. "You can't

put me out on the road this time. As I was saying--"

"What do you mean by those words, sir?"

"Let me into the room, my boy, and I'll tell you and her together,

quietly, just what I mean. I want to tell both of you a plain story, and

appeal to _her_ sense of justice. She's old enough to act for herself.

Perhaps you think I haven't heard something of Dorothy's, or

what-you-call-her's, spirit by this time."

"Let her name alone!" cried Donald, furiously. "If you mention my sister

again, I'll knock you flat, you overgrown ruffian!"

"Hush, not so fast! You'll have those fellows out here in a minute.

What's the use of letting everybody into our private affairs?"

Here Eben stepped further into the hall, followed by Donald.

"Let me into that room, will you?"

Donald, taking the key from his pocket, now threw open the door, with a

"much good may it do you;" and, closing it again after Slade had

entered, coolly locked him in the room. The blinds flew open. Don rushed

out to the still deserted stoop, only to see Eben Slade's angry face

glaring at him from the window. The man could have got through the

window easily enough, but he preferred his present position. Leaning

out, with his elbows on the sill, he said distinctly, in a passionate,

low voice:

"You've baffled me this time, Donald Reed, but I'll carry the day yet.

That girl, wherever she's gone to, is no more your sister than she is

mine, and I can prove it to her! She's my niece--my own sister's child!

I've a right to her, and I can prove it. She's going back home with me,

out West, where my wife's waitin' for her. Now, sir, what have you to

say to that?"

The poor boy, aghast at Eben's statement, stood at first as if stunned;

but recovering himself, he made a rush toward Eben, not blindly, but

with a fierce determination to clutch him by the throat and force him to

unsay his terrible words.

Eben sprang from the window at a bound. A struggle ensued--brief,

violent. Donald might have been mastered, had not a strong man sprung

upon them and with one blow knocked Eben Slade prostrate upon the

boards.

It was Sailor Jack, who had driven up unperceived and leaped from the

buggy just in time.

Three or four men rushed from the bar-room, all calling out at once.

"What's the matter here?"

"Any one killed?--What's the row?"

"Hi!--Separate them!" shouted the stout, red-faced landlord, coming out

slowly behind the others and, as usual, failing to take in the

situation.

Meantime, two of the men had seized Jack as Eben rose slowly; another

tried to catch hold of Donald. Their sympathy plainly was with Slade,

who, seeing his opportunity, suddenly started toward the buggy with the

evident intention of driving off in it.

Jack, breaking from his astonished captors, was upon him in an instant,

dragging him back, just as Slade had put one foot on the buggy-step, and

as Donald was alertly seizing Lady's bridle.

"Stand off, all of you!" cried Jack, still holding Eben by the collar.

"We're out on the open seas at last, my man! and now look out for

yourself!"

The thrashing was brief but effective. Jack wore a serene look of

satisfaction when it was over; and Eben Slade slunk doggedly away,

muttering:

"I'll be even with 'em yet."

* * * * *

Every hat was off, so to speak, when Jack and Donald, who had paid the

landlord handsomely, drove from Vanbogen's door. Lady was impatient to

be off; but Jack soon made her understand that the splendid time she had

made in coming from Nestletown was no longer necessary, since Dood, tied

at the rear of the buggy, could not go faster than a walk. The removal

of his shoe and prompt nursing had helped the pony so much that by this

time he was able to travel, though with difficulty.

It was a strange drive: the spirited mare ahead, relieving her pent-up

speed by gently prancing up and down as she walked; Jack, grim and

satisfied, going over again in fancy every stroke that had fallen upon

the struggling Eben; Donald, pale and silent, with Slade's vicious words

still ringing in his ears; and the pony limping painfully behind.

"He's taken up with his own thoughts," said Jack to himself after a

while, noting Don's continued silence. "It ain't for me to disturb him,

though them twins somehow seem as near as if they was my own children;

but I _would_ like to know just what the little chap has heard from that

sea-sarpent. Somethin' or other's took fearful hold on him, sure's

sailin', poor lad! He ain't apt to be so onsociable."

Following up these thoughts, as the mare jogged along, it was a great

solace to good Sailor Jack, after their dismal drive, to see Don look up

at the house as they turned into the lane, and wave his hat gallantly to

Dorothy.

She, too, standing at her bedroom window with Lydia, was wonderfully

relieved by Don's salutation.

"Oh, it's all right!" she exclaimed, cheerily. "Even Dood isn't hurt as

badly as we feared, and how lovely it is to have Don back again, safe

and sound! And, oh, Liddy, you should have seen Jack when I refused to

get into the buggy, and made him drive on for his life, to help Don. But

the trouble is over now. How lovely! Both of us will take supper with

Uncle, after all!"

Lydia, who had been doing all sorts of things to save Dorry from

"taking her death o' cold," stood admiringly by, while with rapid

touches, and many a laughing word, the happy girl arrayed herself to go

down and meet "dear old Don and Uncle."

Meanwhile Mr. Reed, in his study, looking up inquiringly to greet

Donald's return, was surprised to see the boy's white face and flashing

eyes.

"Uncle George," said Donald, the moment he entered the room, "tell me

quick! Is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SUNSET.

FOR an instant Mr. Reed was too astonished to speak.

"Tell me," implored Donald, "is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

"Hush! hush!" was the hurried response. "She'll hear you!"

"Is she or not?" insisted Donald, his eyes still fixed on his uncle's

face. It seemed to him that he caught the words, "She is." He could not

be certain, but he stepped hopefully forward and laid his hand upon Mr.

Reed's shoulder.

"She is!" he exclaimed joyfully, bending over till their faces almost

met. "I knew it! Why didn't you tell me the fellow lied?"

"Who? What fellow?"

"Uncle! _Is_ she or not? I _must_ know."

Mr. Reed glanced toward the door, to be sure that it was closed.

"Uncle, Uncle! please answer my question."

"Yes, my boy, I think--that is, I _trust_--she is. Oh, Donald," cried

Mr. Reed, leaning upon the table and burying his face in his hands, "I

do not know, myself!"

"What don't you know, Uncle?" said a merry voice outside, accompanied by

a light rapping at the door, "May I come in?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Reed, rising. But Don was first. He caught Dorry

in his arms as she entered.

"Well!" she exclaimed, never suspecting the nature of the scene she had

interrupted, "I thought I'd never get dressed. But where's the sense of

shutting yourselves in here, when it's so beautiful outside after the

shower? It's the grandest sunset I ever saw. Do come and look at it!"

With these words, and taking an arm of each, she playfully led them from

the room, out to the piazza, where they could see the glory of the

western sky.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she went on, as they stood looking over the

glowing lake. "See, there's a splendid, big purple cloud with a golden

edge for you, Uncle, and those two little ones alongside are for Don and

me. Oh!" she laughed, clapping her hands, "they're twins, Don, like

ourselves; what a nice time they're having together! Now they are

separating--farther and farther apart--and yours is breaking up too,

Uncle. Well, I _do_ declare," she added, suddenly turning to look at her

companions, "I never saw such a pair of doleful faces in all my life!"

"In _all_ your life?" echoed her uncle, trying to laugh carelessly, and

wishing to divert her attention from Donald.

"Yes, in all my life--all _our_ life I might say--and it isn't such a

very short life either. I've learned ever so many things in it, I'd have

you know, and not all of them from school-books, by any means."

"Well, what have you learned, my girl?"

"Why, as if I could tell it all in a minute! It would take a year. I'll

tell you _one_ thing, though, that I've found out for certain" (dropping

a little courtesy): "I've the very dearest brother ever a girl had, and

the best uncle in the whole United States."

With these words, Dorothy, raising herself on tiptoe, smilingly caught

her uncle's face with both hands and kissed him.

"Now, Don," she added, "what say you to a race to the front gate before

supper? Watch can try, too, and Uncle shall see which--Why, where is

Don? When did he run off?"

"I'll find him," said Uncle George, passing her quickly and reaching his

study before Dorry had recovered from her surprise. He had seen Donald

hasten into the house, unable to restrain the feelings called up by

Dorry's allusion to the clouds, and now he, too, could bear her

unsuspecting playfulness no longer.

Dorry stood a few seconds, half puzzled, half amused at their sudden

desertion of her, when sounds of approaching wheels caught her

attention. Turning, she saw Josie Manning coming toward the house, in an

open carriage driven by Mr. Michael McSwiver.

"Oh, Dorothy!" Josie called out, before Michael had brought the fine

gray horse to a halt, "can you come and take supper with me? I have

driven over on purpose, and I've some beautiful new lichens at home to

show you. Six of us G-B-C girls went out moss-hunting before the shower.

So sorry you were not with us!"

"Oh, I don't think I can," hesitated Dorry. "Donald and I have been away

all day. Can't you stay here instead?"

"_Im_-possible," was Josie's emphatic reply. "Mother will be waiting for

me--Oh, what a noble fellow! So this is Watch? Ed Tyler told me about

him."

Here Josie, reaching out her arm, leaned forward to pat the shaggy head

of a beautiful Newfoundland, that, with his paws on the edge of the

rockaway, was trying to express his approbation of Josie as a friend of

the family.

"Yes, this is our new dog. Isn't he handsome? Such a swimmer, too! You

ought to see him leap into the lake to bring back sticks. Here, Watch!"

But Watch would not leave the visitor. "Good fellow, I admire your

taste," said Josie, laughingly, still stroking his large, silky head.

"But I must be off. I do wish you'd come with me, Dot. Go and ask your

uncle," she coaxed; "Michael will bring you home early."

Here Mr. McSwiver, without turning his face, touched the rim of his hat

gravely.

"Well, I'll see," said Dorothy, as she ran into the house. To her

surprise, Mr. Reed gave a willing consent.

"Shall I really go?" she asked, hardly satisfied. "Where is Donald?"

"He is readying himself for supper, I think, Miss," said Kassy, the

housemaid, who happened to pass at that moment. "I saw him going into

his room."

"But you look tired, Uncle, dear. Suppose I don't go, this time."

"Tired? not a bit. Never better, Dot. There, get your hat, my girl, and

don't keep Josie waiting any longer."

"Well, good-by, then. Tell Don, please, I've gone to Josie's--Oh, and

Josie and I would like to have him come over after tea. He needn't

though, if he feels very tired, for Josie says Michael can bring me

home."

"Very well, my dear. If Donald is not there by half-past nine o'clock,

do not expect him. Wait; I'll escort you to the carriage."

CHAPTER XXVI.

UNCLE GEORGE TELLS DONALD.

"COME into the study, Donald," said Uncle George, after their lonely

supper,--lonely even to Lydia, who presided at the tea-tray wondering

how Mr. G. could have been so thoughtless as to let that child go out.

"We can have no better opportunity than this for our talk. But, first

tell me--Who was the 'fellow' you mentioned? Where was he? Did Dorry see

him?"

Donald, assuring his uncle that Dorry had not recognized the man, told

all the particulars of the interview at Vanbogen's, and of Jack's timely

appearance and Slade's beating.

Disturbed, even angry, as Mr. Reed was at hearing this unwelcome news,

he could not resist Donald's persistent, resolute desire that the

present hour should be given to the main question concerning Dorry.

* * * * *

Twilight slowly faded, and the room grew darker as they sat there,

until at last they scarcely could see each other's faces. Then they

moved nearer to the open window, conversing in a low tone, as star after

star came softly into view.

Donald's large, wistful eyes sometimes turned to look toward the front

gate, through which Dorry had passed, though he gave close attention to

every word Mr. Reed uttered.

It was a strange story; but all its details need not be repeated here.

Suffice it to say, at last Donald learned his uncle's secret, and

understood the many unaccountable moods that so often had perplexed

Dorry and himself.

What wonder that Mr. George had been troubled, and had sometimes shown

signs of irritation! For nearly fifteen years he had suffered from

peculiar suspense and annoyance, because, while he believed Dorothy to

be his own niece, he could not ascertain the fact to his complete

satisfaction. To make matters worse, the young girl unconsciously

increased his perplexity by sometimes evincing traits which well might

be inherited from his brother Wolcott, and oftener in numberless little

ways so reminding him of his adopted sister Kate in her early girlhood,

that his doubts would gain new power to torment him.

All he had been able to find out definitely was that, in the autumn of

1859, in accordance with his instructions, Mrs. Wolcott Reed, his

brother's widow, with her twin babies, a boy and girl of six weeks, and

their nurse, had sailed from Europe, in company with Kate and her

husband, Henry Robertson, who had with them their own little daughter

Delia, a baby barely a week older than the twins.

When about seven days out, the steamer had been caught in a fog, and,

going too near the treacherous coast of Newfoundland, had in the night

suddenly encountered a sunken rock. The violence of the shock aroused

every one on board. There was a rush for the pumps, but they were of no

use; the vessel already had begun to sink. Then followed a terrible

scene. Men and women rushed wildly about, vainly calling for those

belonging to them. Parents and their children were separated in the

darkness--all, passengers and crew alike, too panic-stricken to act in

concert. In the distracting terror of the occasion, there was great

difficulty in lowering the steamer's boats--now their only possible hope

of rescue. These were no sooner let down than they became dangerously

overloaded. The first one, indeed, was so crowded that it swamped

instantly. The other boats, threatened with the same fate, were tossed

far apart as fast as they were filled, and in the darkness and tumult

their crews were able to pick up but a few of the poor creatures who

were struggling with the waves.

Two of the three babies, a boy and a girl, had been rescued, as we

already know, by the efforts of one of the crew, Sailor Jack, known to

his comrades as Jack Burton. He had just succeeded in getting into one

of the boats, when he heard through the tumult a woman's wild cry from

the deck:

"Save these helpless little ones! Look out! I must throw them!"

"Ay, ay! Let 'em come!" shouted Jack in response; and the next moment

the babies, looking like little black bundles, flew over the ship's

side, one after the other, and were safely caught in Jack's dexterous

arms. Just in time, too, for the men behind him at once bent to the

oars, in the fear that the boat, so dangerously near the sinking ship,

was in danger of being engulfed by it.

Against Jack's protesting shout of "There's another coming!--a woman!"

the boat shot away on the crest of a wave.

Hearing a scream above the surrounding din, Jack hastily flung off his

coat, thrust the babies into the arms of his comrades, and shouting,

"Keep them safe for me: I'm Jack Burton. It may be the mother! Look out

for me, mates!" he plunged into the sea.

Jack made gallant efforts for a time, but returning alone, worn out with

his fruitless exertions, he was taken into the boat. If, after that, in

the severe cold, he remembered his jacket, it was only to take real

comfort in knowing that the "little kids" were wrapped in it safe and

sound. In the darkness and confusion he had not been able to see who had

thrown the babies to him, but the noble-hearted sailor resolved to be

faithful to his trust, and if he ever touched land again never to lose

sight of them until he could leave them safe with some of their own

kindred.

All night, in the bitter cold, the boat that carried the two babies had

tossed with the waves, the men using their oars as well as they could,

working away from the dangerous rocks out to the open sea, and hoping

that daylight might reveal some passing vessel. Every one excepting the

babies, suffered keenly; these, wrapped from head to feet in the

sailor's jacket, and tucked in between the shivering women, slept

soundly, while their preserver, scorning even in his drenched condition

to feel the need of his warm garment, did his best at the oars.

With the first light of dawn a speck appeared on the horizon. It slowly

grew larger, sometimes seeming to recede, and often disappearing

utterly, until at last the straining eyes that watched it discerned its

outline. It was a ship under full sail! Everything now depended upon

being able to attract attention. One of the women, wrapped in a large

white woollen mantle, snatched it off; it would serve as a signal of

distress. The men hoisted the garment upon an oar, and, heavy and wet

though it was, waved it wildly in the air.

"She's seen us!" cried Sailor Jack at last. "Hooray! She's headin'

straight for us!"

And so she was.

Before sunset of that day, the honest sailor, with two babies, and all

his companions in the boat were comfortably quartered on what proved to

be the good ship "Cumberland," a sailing vessel bound for the port of

New York.

Once safely on board, Sailor Jack had time to reflect on his somewhat

novel position--a jolly tar, as he expressed it, with two helpless

little kids to take ashore as salvage. That the babies did not now

belong to him never entered his mind; they were his twins, to be cared

for and to keep, he insisted, till the "Cumberland" should touch shore;

and his to keep and care for ever after, unless somebody with a better

right and proof positive should meet him in New York and claim them, or

else that some of their relatives should be saved in one of the other

boats.

So certain was he of his rights, that when the captain's wife, who

happened to be on board, offered to care for the little creatures, he,

concealing his helplessness as a nurse, accepted her kindness with a

lordly air and as though it were really a favor on his part. "Them twins

is Quality," he would say, "and I can't have 'em meddled with till I

find the grand folks they belong to. Wash their leetle orphan faces, you

may; feed 'em, you may; and keep 'em warm, you may; but their leetle

jackets, night gownds, and petticuts, an' caps has got to stay just as

they are, to identify 'em. And this ere gimcrack on the leetle

miss--gold it is, you may well say" (touching the chain on the baby's

neck admiringly)--"this ere gimcrack likely's got a legal consequence to

its folks, which I couldn't and wouldn't undertake to calc'late."

Meantime the sailors would stand around, looking reverently at the

babies, until, with Jack's gracious permission, the kind-hearted woman

would tenderly soothe the little ones to sleep.

Among the survivors of the wreck, none could give much information

concerning the babies. Only two were women, and one of these lay ill in

a rough bunk through the remainder of the voyage, raving in her fever of

the brother who bent anxiously over her. (In her delirium, she imagined

that he had been drowned on that terrible night.) Sailor Jack held the

twins before her, but she took no notice of them. Her brother knew

nothing about them or of any of the passengers. He had been a fireman on

the wrecked vessel, and scarcely had been on deck from the hour of

starting until the moment of the wreck. The other rescued woman

frequently had seen a tall nurse with two very young infants on her lap,

and a pale mother dressed in black standing near them; and she

remembered hearing some one say that there was another lady with a young

baby on board, and that the two mothers were sisters, or relatives of

some kind, and that the one with twins had recently become a widow. That

was all. Beyond vaguely wondering how any one could think of taking such

mites of humanity across the ocean, she had given no more thought to

them. Of the men rescued, not one had known of the existence of the

three wee passengers, the only babies on board, as the little creatures

seldom had been taken on deck.

The two mothers, as Jack learned from one of the women, had been made so

ill by the voyage that they rarely had left their state-rooms. Mr.

Robertson, Kate's husband, was known by sight to all as a tall, handsome

man, though very restless and anxious-looking; but, being much occupied

with the care of his wife and child, he had spoken to very few persons

on board the vessel.

This was all Jack could find out, though he never wearied of making

inquiries among the survivors. He was shrewd enough, however, to ask

them to write their names and addresses for him to keep, so that, if the

twins' people (as he called them) ever should be found, they could in

turn communicate with the survivors. The family naturally would want to

inquire about "the other baby and its poor father, and the two mothers,

one of which was a widow in mournin'--poor soul! and the nurse-girl, all

drowned and gone."

Long weeks afterward, one other boat was heard from--the only other one

that was ever found. Its freight of human beings, only seven in all, had

passed through great privation and danger, but they finally had been

taken aboard a steamer going east. The list of persons saved in this

boat had been in due time received by Mr. Reed, who, after careful

investigation, at last ascertained to a certainty that they all were

adults, and that neither Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, nor Wolcott Reed's

widow, were of the number. He communicated in person or by letter with

all of them excepting one; and that one was a woman, who was described

as a tall, dark-complexioned girl, a genteel servant, who, as three of

the men declared, had been occasionally seen, pacing up and down the

deck of the ill-fated vessel during the early part of the voyage,

carrying a "very small baby" in her arms. She had given her name as

Ellen Lee; had accepted assistance from the ship's company, and finally

she had been traced by Mr. Reed's clerk, Henry Wakeley, to an obscure

boarding-house in Liverpool. Going there to see her, Mr. Wakeley had

been told that she was "out;" and calling there again, late on the same

day, he learned that she had paid her bill and left the house four hours

before.

After that, all efforts to find her, both on the part of the clerk and

of Mr. Reed, had been unavailing; though to this day, as the latter

assured Donald, detectives in Liverpool and London had her name and

description, as belonging to a person "to be found."

"But do they know your address?" asked Donald.

"Oh, yes, I shall be notified at once if any news is heard of her; but

after all these years there is hardly a possibility of that. Ellen Lees

are plentiful enough; it is not an uncommon name, I find; but that

particular Ellen Lee seems to have vanished from the earth."

CHAPTER XXVII.

DELIA, OR DOROTHY?

AS Donald listened to his uncle by the study-window, on that starlit

evening, many things that he had heard from Sailor Jack rose in his

memory and blended with Mr. Reed's words. Part of the strange story was

already familiar to him. He needed only a hint of the shipwreck to have

the scene vividly before him. He and Dorry had often heard of it, and of

their first coming to Nestletown. They knew that Uncle George had easily

established his claim to the babies, as these and the one that was lost

were the only infants among the passengers, and that he had brought them

and Sailor Jack home with him from New York; that Jack, through his

devotion to the children, had been induced to give up the sea and remain

with Mr. Reed ever since; and that they, the twins, had grown up

together the happiest brother and sister in that part of the country,

until "the long, lank man" had come to mar their happiness, and Uncle

had been mysteriously bothered, and had seemed sometimes to be

unreasonably annoyed at Dorothy's innocent peculiarities of manner and

temperament. But now Donald learned of the doubts that from the first

had perplexed Mr. Reed; of the repeated efforts that he had made to

ascertain which one of the three babies had been lost; how he had been

baffled again and again, until at last he had given himself up to a dull

hope that the little girl who had become so dear was really his

brother's child, and joint heir with Donald to his and his brother's

estates; and how Eben Slade actually had come to claim her and take her

away, threatening to blight the poor child by proving that she was _his_

niece, Delia Robertson, and not Dorothy Reed at all.

Poor Donald! Dorry had been so surely his sister that until now he had

taken his joy in her as a matter of course,--as a part of his existence,

bright and necessary as light and air, and never questioned. She was

Dorry, he even now felt confident, not Delia--Delia, the poor little

cousin who was lost; certainly not. She was Dorry and he was Donald. If

she was not Dorry, then who was he? Who was Uncle George? Who were all

the persons they knew, and what did everything in life mean?

No, he would not give her up--he could not. Something within him

resented the idea, then scouted it, and finally set him up standing

before his uncle, so straight, so proud in his bearing, so joyfully

scornful of anything that threatened to take his sister away from him,

that Mr. George rose also and waited for him to speak, as though

Donald's one word must settle the question for ever.

"Well, my boy?"

"Uncle, I am absolutely sure of it. Our Dorry is Dorothy Reed--here with

us alive and well, and I mean to prove it!"

"God grant it, Donald!"

"Well, Uncle, I must go now to bring my sister home. Of course, I shall

not tell her a word of what has passed between us this evening. That

scoundrel! to think of his intending to tell her that she was his

sister's child! Poor Dot! think of the shock to her. Just suppose he had

convinced her, made her think that it was true, that it was her duty to

go with him, care for him, and all that--Why, Uncle, with her spirit and

high notions of right, even you and I couldn't have stopped her; she'd

have gone with him, if it killed her!"

"Donald!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, fiercely, "you're talking nonsense!"

"So I am--sheer nonsense! The man hasn't an argument in favor of his

claim. But, Uncle, there is a great deal yet to be looked up. After Dot

has bidden us good-night and is fast asleep, may I not come down here to

the study again? Then you can show me the things you were speaking

of--the pictures, the letters, the chain, the little clothes, the locks

of hair, and everything--especially that list, you know. We'll go

carefully over every point. There _must_ be proof somewhere."

Donald was so radiant with a glad confidence that for an instant his

uncle looked upon him as one inspired. Then sober thoughts returned;

objections and arguments crowded into Mr. Reed's mind, but he had no

opportunity to utter them. Donald clasped his uncle's hand warmly and

was off, bounding down the moon-flecked carriage-way, the new dog

leaping before him. Both apparently were intent only on enjoying a brisk

walk toward the village, and on bringing Dorry home.

Dorry was very tired. Leaning upon Donald's arm as they walked

homeward--for they had declined Mr. McSwiver's services--she had but

little to say, and that little was all about the strange adventure at

Vanbogen's.

"Who in the world was that man, Don?" and then without waiting for a

reply, she continued: "Do you know, after I started for home, I really

suspected that he was that horrid person--the long, lank one, you

know--come back again. I'm glad it wasn't; but he may turn up yet, just

as he did before. Why doesn't he stay with his own people, and not

wander about like a lunatic? They ought to take care of him, anyway.

Ugh! I can't bear to think of that dreadful man. It makes me shiver!"

"Then why _do_ you think of him?" suggested Donald, with forced

cheerfulness. "Let us talk of something else."

"Very well. Let's talk--let's talk of--of--Oh, Don, I'm so tired and

sleepy! Suppose we don't talk at all!"

"All right," he assented. And so in cordial silence they stepped lightly

along in the listening night, to the great surprise of Watch, who at

first whined and capered by way of starting a conversation, and finally

contented himself with exploring every shadowed recess along the moonlit

road, running through every opening that offered, waking sleeping dogs

in their kennels, and in fact taking upon himself an astonishing amount

of business for a new-comer into the neighborhood, who naturally would

be excused from assuming entire charge of things.

Mr. Reed met Don and Dorry on the piazza. Greetings and good-nights

were soon over; and before long, Dorry, in her sweet, sound sleep,

forgot alike the pleasures and adventures of the day.

Meantime, Mr. Reed and Donald were busily engaged in examining old

family ambrotypes, papers, and various articles that, carefully hidden

in the uncle's secretary, had been saved all these years in the hope

that they might furnish a clew to Dorry's parentage, or perhaps prove

that she was, as Mr. Reed trusted, the daughter of his brother Wolcott.

To Donald each article was full of interest and hopeful possibilities;

but his uncle looked at them wearily and sadly, because the very sight

of them recalled a throng of disappointments and baffled surmises. There

were the little caps and baby-garments, yellow, rumpled, and

weather-stained, just as they had been taken off and carefully labelled

on that day nearly fifteen years ago. Donald noticed that one parcel of

these articles was marked, "Belonging to the boy, Donald," and the other

simply "Belonging to the girl." There were the photographs of the two

babies, which had been taken a week after their landing, carefully

labelled in the same way, giving the boy's name but leaving a blank in

place of the girl's. Poor, pinched, expressionless-looking little

creatures, both of them were; for, as Uncle George explained to the

crestfallen Donald, the babies were really ill at first, from exposure

and unsuitable feeding. Then there were the two tiny papers containing

each a lock of hair, and these also were marked, one, "The boy, Donald,"

and the other simply "The girl." Donald's had only a few pale little

brown hairs, but "the girl's" paper disclosed a soft, yellow little

curl.

"She had more than you had," remarked Uncle George, as he carefully

closed the paper again; "you'll see that, also, by the accurate

description of the two children that I wrote at the time. Here it is."

Donald glanced over the paper, as if intending to read it later, and

then took up the chain with a square clasp, the same that Uncle George

held in his hand when we saw him in the study on the day of the

shooting-match. Three delicate strands of gold chain came together at

the clasp, which was still closed. This clasp was prettily embossed on

its upper surface, while its under side was smooth.

"Was this on Dor--on _her_ neck or on mine, Uncle?" he asked.

"On the little girl's," said Mr. Reed. "In fact, she wore it until she

was a year old, and then her dear little throat grew to be so chubby,

Lydia fancied that the chain was too tight. The catch of the clasp

seemed to have rusted inside, and it would not open. So, rather than

break it, we severed the three chains here across the middle. I've

since--"

Donald, who was holding the clasp toward the light, cut short his

uncle's remark with the joyful exclamation:

"Why, see here! The under side has letters on it! D. R.--Dorothy Reed."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Reed, impatiently, "but D stands for Delia too."

"But the R," insisted Donald; "D. R., Dorothy Reed--it's plain as day.

Oh!" he added quickly, in a changed tone, "that doesn't help us, after

all; for R would stand for Robertson as well as for Reed. But then, in

some way or other such a chain as this ought to help us. It's by no

means a common chain. I never saw one like it before."

"Nor I," said Mr. Reed.

By this time, Donald had taken up "the girl's" little garments again.

Comparing them with "Donald's" as well as he could, considering his

uncle's extreme care that the two sets should not get mixed, he said,

with a boy's helplessness in such matters: "They're about alike. I do

not see any difference between them, except in length. Ho-ho! these

little flannel sacques are of a different color; mine is blue and hers

is pink."

"I know that," his uncle returned, despondingly. "For a long time I

hoped that this difference would lead to some discovery, but nothing

came of it. Take care! don't lay it down; give it to me" (holding out

his hand for the pink sacque, and very carefully folding it up with "the

girl's" things).

"How strange! And you wrote immediately, you say, and sent somebody

right over to Europe to find out everything?"

"Not only sent my confidential clerk, Henry Wakeley, over at once,"

replied Mr. Reed, "but, when he returned without being able to give any

satisfaction, I went myself. I was over there two months--as long as I

could just then be away from my affairs and from you two babies. Liddy

was faithfulness itself and needed no oversight, even had a rough

bachelor like me been capable of giving it; but I felt better to be at

home, where I could see how you were getting along. As Liddy and Jack

and everybody else always spoke of you as 'the twins,' my hope that you

were indeed brother and sister became a sort of habit that often served

to beguile me into actual belief."

"Humph! well it might," said Donald, rather indignantly. "Of course

we're brother and sister."

"Certainly," assented Mr. Reed, with pathetic heartiness, "no doubt of

it; and yet I would give, I cannot say how much, to be absolutely

certain."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS.

FOR a time, an outsider looking on would have seen no great change at

Lakewood, as the Reed homestead was called. There were the same studies,

the same sports, the same every-day life with its in-comings, its

out-goings, its breakfasts, dinners, and pleasant home-scenes; there

were drives, out-door games, and sails and rambles and visits. Uncle

George always was heartily willing to take part, when he could leave his

books and papers; and Lydia, busy with household matters, often found

opportunities to teach her young lady some of the mysteries of the

kitchen.

"It's high time, Miss Dorry, that you learned these things," Lydia

would say, "even if you _are_ to be a grand lady, for you'll be the

mistress of this house in time; and if anything should happen to _me_, I

don't know where things would go to. Besides, as your uncle truly says,

every lady should understand housekeeping. So, Miss Dorry dear, if you

please to do so, we'll bake bread and cake on Saturday, and I'll show

you at to-morrow's ironin' how we get Mr. Reed's shirt-bosoms so lovely

and smooth; and, if you please, you can iron one for him, all with your

own pretty hands, Miss."

As a consequence of such remarks, Mr. Reed sometimes found himself

eating, with immense relish, cake that had only "just a least little

heavy streak in the middle," or wearing linen that, if any one but Dorry

had ironed it, would have been cast aside as not fit to put on.

But what matter! She was sure to improve under Lydia's instruction.

Besides, her voice was sweet and merry as ever, her step as light and

her heart even more glad; for Uncle was always his dear, good self now,

and had no mysterious moods and startling surprises of manner for his

little girl. In fact, he was wonderfully relieved by having shared his

secret with Donald. The boy's stout-hearted, manly way of seeing the

bright side of things and scouting all possible suspicions that Dorry

was not Dorry, gave Mr. Reed strength and a restfulness that he had not

known for years. Unconscious of the shadow still hanging over the home,

Dorry, prettier, brighter, and sweeter every day, was the delight of the

household; her very faults to their partial eyes added to her charm;

for, according to Lydia, "they were uncommon innocent and funny, Miss

Dorry's ways were." In fact, the young lady, who had a strong will of

her own, would have been spoiled to a certainty but for her scorn of

affectation, her love of truth, and genuine faithfulness to whatever she

believed to be right.

Donald, on his part, was too boyish to be utterly cast down by the

secret that stood between him and Dorry; but his mind dwelt upon it

despite his efforts to dismiss every useless doubt.