s first glimpse of
them. They have been on that sofa in just those positions for at least
five minutes, and, from present appearances, they intend to remain so
until further notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Dorry! Dorry!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

WHICH PARTLY EXPLAINS ITSELF.

DOROTHY REED was of a somewhat livelier temperament than Donald, and
that, as she often could not but feel, gave