ided between random boy-thoughts on
one side, and a real manly interest in Dorothy, whose lot seemed to him
decidedly less pleasant than his own. Dorry was quietly enjoying the
change from keen grief to its absence, and a sense of security in being
so near Uncle and Donald. And the uncle--what shall I say of him? Shall
I describe only the stately form, the iron-gray hair, the kindly face
brightened by the yellow afternoon light?--or shall I tell you of the
lately happy, but now anxious, troubled man, who within a few days had
been made to feel it possible that the dearest thing he had on earth
might soon be his no longer.

"Oh, Uncle," said Dorry, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you something!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. George, in playful astonishment, a
quick smile rising to his lips, and his eyes full of pleasant inquiry.
"What did my little maid forget to tell me?"

"Why, about the man on the croquet-ground. I was practising a
roquet-shot, and before I knew it, he was close by me, a great, tall,
lanky man, calling me 'Sis' and--"

"The rascal!" exclaimed Uncle George, growing red and angry in a moment.
"And what business had you to--"

"I didn't, Uncle, I didn't. I'm too old to be called 'Sis,' and he acted
just as if I ought to know him, and be real pleasant. I wouldn't have a
word to say to him, but just turned around and ran to look for Donald.
Didn't I, Don?"

"Yes," said Donald, but before he said it he had scowled, and nodded to
his uncle, slyly as he thought, but his sister's eyes were keen.

"I declare, it's too bad!" broke forth Dorry, impetuously. "Everybody
gets mad at me for nothing, and makes signs and everything!" and with
this incoherent speech Dorry began to pout--yes, actually to pout, the
brave, good Dorry, who usually was sunny and glad, "the light of the
house," as her Aunt Kate had been before her! Donald stared at her in
astonishment.

At this moment, one of the horses received a cut which he certainly did
not deserve, but otherwise all was quiet on the coachman's box. No one
looking up at that placid, well-dressed back would have dreamed of the
South-Sea tempest raging under the well-padded and double-buttoned coat.

"Dorothy," said her uncle, with a strange trembling in his voice, "try
to control yourself. I do not blame you, my child. John, you may drive
toward home."

Poor Dorry stifled her rising sobs as well as she could, and, sitting
upright, drew as far from her uncle as