the fluffy, feathery boa close round her fair young face.
Civilization has changed methods, but not essentials; it is still not
what goes on in the minds of a man and woman that counts, but what goes
on in their hearts and nerves.

The old doctor did not in the least mind the momentary neglect of
himself. He had always assumed that his son and Del loved each other,
there being every reason why they should and no reason why they
shouldn't; he saw only the natural and the expected in this outburst
which astonished and somewhat embarrassed them with the partial return of
the self-consciousness that had been their curse. He beamed on them from
eyes undimmed by half a century of toil, as bright under his shaggy white
brows as the first spring flowers among the snows. As soon as he had
Dory's hand and his apparent attention, he said: "I hope you've been
getting your address ready on the train, as I suggested in my telegram."

"I've got it in my bag," replied Dory.

In the phaeton Del sat between them and drove. Dory forgot the honors he
had come home to receive; he had eyes and thoughts only for her, was
impatient to be alone with her, to reassure himself of the meaning of the
blushes that tinted her smooth white skin and the shy glances that stole
toward him from the violet eyes under those long lashes of hers. Dr.
Hargrave resumed the subject that was to him paramount. "You see,
Theodore, your steamer's being nearly two days late brings you home just
a day before the installation. You'll be delivering, your address at
eleven to-morrow morning."

"So I shall," said Dory absently.

"You say it's ready. Hadn't you better let me get it type-written for
you?"

Dory opened the bag at his feet, gave his father a roll of paper. "Please
look it over, and make any changes you like."

Dr. Hargrave began the reading then and there. He had not finished the
first paragraph when Dory interrupted with, "Why, Del, you're passing
our turning."

Del grew crimson. The doctor, without looking up or taking his mind off
the address, said: "Adelaide gave up Mrs. Dorsey's house several weeks
ago. You are living with us."

Dory glanced at her quickly and away. She said nothing. "He'll
understand," thought she--and she was right.

Only those who have had experience of the older generation out West
would have suspected the pride, the affection, the delight hiding behind
Martha Skeffington's prim and formal welcome, or that it was not
ind