nna gave a puzzled glance at him, as if not quite
comprehending his high talk, and fumbling in her dress pocket.

"I have a letter that will tell you all about me--why I've come, you
know," said she.

"Ah yes, Dr. Willett's letter," he remarked, taking the missive from her
and balancing it between his finger and thumb. Just then Oscar came back
with a rush.

"I know all about you, and who you are," said he, putting down the cup
and saucer he had brought with a clatter. "You're a sort of half-cousin
of mine, and a great-niece of Uncle Jonathan's," he blurted out.

"Well, since you know so much, suppose you come here and enlighten your
new half-cousin as to who I am. She has mistaken me for her uncle--and
naturally too, since you, as host for the time being, were rude enough
not to introduce us."

At this reproach Oscar left his tea-making, and approached the two: Inna
with burning cheeks, at her mistake about this unknown gentleman, not
her uncle.

"Well, this is Mr. Barlow--Dr. Barlow, some people call him, but he's
no such thing; he's a surgeon, and the one who plays David to Uncle
Jonathan--you understand?" questioned the boy, with humour sparkling in
his blue-grey eyes.

"Yes," nodded Inna shyly; "his very dear friend, you mean."

"Yes, that's about the figure," was the response, while the two bowed
with ceremony.

"And now, I am--tell Mr. Barlow who I am, please," pleaded the small
maiden.

"Well, this is Miss Inna Weston, the daughter of a certain Mercy
Willett, niece of Jonathan Willett, Doctor, who lived here years ago,
before my time. Now, old man, come to tea." With this, the boy slapped
the other on the arm with pleasant familiarity, and went back to his
tea-making.

Mr. Barlow led Inna to her seat, and saw her comfortable there, taking
his own chair beside her, while Oscar sat with his back to the
fire--like a cat on a frosty night, Mr. Barlow told him. Inna wondered
where her uncle was, but asked no questions as yet--only munched away at
her toast in her dainty way, and sipped her tea, trying hard to feel
that she was at home. As for Oscar, he made such sloppy work with the
urn, that Mr. Barlow had to say presently--

"Don't make a sea of the table, boy. You see what incapable creatures
we are, Miss Inna. I never could make tea, and your own eyes tell you
what Oscar can do."

"I suppose Uncle Jonathan makes tea when he is here," was Inna's reply.

At which the two gentlemen looked comicall