oolly stared at her, the
good woman ran up to the second story to inquire further, and Jack went
down again, whistling softly to himself.

Lydia found Donald in tribulation. He had remained up to write a letter
to a friend at boarding-school, and somehow had managed to upset his
inkstand. His attempts to prevent serious damage had only increased the
mischief. A pale but very large ink-stain stared up at him from the wet
carpet.

"De-struction!" exclaimed Lydia, as, standing at the open door, she took
in the situation at a glance. "If you'd only rubbed it with
blotting-paper the instant it happened," she continued, kneeling upon
the floor, and rubbing vigorously with a piece that she had snatched
from the table, "there wouldn't have been a trace of it by this time.
Sakes!" glancing at the fine towel which Donald had recklessly used, "if
you haven't ruined _that_ too! Well," she sighed, slowly rising with a
hopeless air, "nothing but sour milk can help the carpet now, and I
haven't a drop in the house!"

"Never mind," said Donald; "what's a little ink-stain? You can't expect
a bachelor's apartment to look like a parlor. I'll fling the rug over
the place--so!"

"Not now, Master Donald. Do wait till it dries!" cried Lydia, checking
him in the act, and laughing at his bewildered look. She ran down stairs
with a half-reproachful "My, what a boy!"--while Donald, carefully
putting a little water into the inkstand, to make up for recent waste,
went on with his letter, which, it happened, was all about affairs not
immediately connected with this story.

CHAPTER X.

WHICH PRESENTS A FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. REED AND
HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.

"HOPE the young folks are at home," remarked the "long, lank man," with
an off-hand air of familiarity, comfortably settling himself in an
arm-chair before the smouldering fire, and thrusting out his ungainly
feet as far as possible. "Would be glad to make their acquaintance."

"My nephew and niece will not be down again this evening, sir," was the
stiff reply.

"Ah? Hardly past nine, too. You hold to old-fashioned customs here, I
perceive. 'Early to bed,' etcetera, etcetera. And yet they're no
chickens. Let me see; I'm thirty-nine. According to my reckoning, they
must carry about fourteen years apiece by this time. Dorothy looks it;
but the boy seems younger, in spite of his big ways. Why not sit down,
George?"

"Dorothy!--George!" echoed Mr. Reed's th