ppy!"

"Yes, child. I've seen it. Such a pity, too, on a circus day!"

"Please, please don't tease me now. Aunt Betty thinks--thinks--I
hardly know--only--read that!"

From the tiny pocket of her blouse she pulled the fateful telegram and
thrust it into his hand. He had some ado to smooth it out and decipher
the blurred writing, for it had been wet with many tears and
frequently handled.

"You have made me dangerously angry. You must find that money.
Heretofore there has been no thievery in my house." Signed, "Mrs.
Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert."

The farrier whistled softly, and slowly refolded the document; then
drew Dorothy's wet face to his shoulder and said:

"Yes, little girl, we must find that money. We must. There is no other
way."

"But how can we? And why should she--she be so angry after having told
me I was all the world to her and that all she had was mine, or would
be."

"Well, dearie, 'would be' and 'is' are two widely differing
conditions. Besides, she is Betty Calvert and you are you."

"That's no answer, as I can see."

"It is all the answer there is. She is an old, old lady though she
doesn't realize it herself. All her life long she has been accustomed
to doing exactly what she wished and when she wished. She has
idealized you and you have idealized her. Neither of you is at all
perfect--though mighty nice, the pair of you!--and you've got to fit
yourselves to one another. Naturally, most of the fitting must be on
your part, since you're the younger. You will love each other dearly,
you do now, despite this temporary cloud, but you, my child, will have
to cultivate the grace of patience; cultivate it as if it were a
cherished rose in your own old garden. It will all come right, don't
fear."

"How can it come right? How ever in this world? I've promised to adopt
one of the twins and Molly trusts me in that and I haven't a cent. I'm
poorer than I used to be before I was an heiress. Molly will never
believe me again. Then there's all this expense you're paying--the
circus tickets and railway fares and all. It was to be _my_ House
Party, my very own, to celebrate my coming into my rightful name and
home and it isn't at all. It's yours and--Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Nothing
is right. I wish I could run away and hide somewhere before Aunt Betty
comes home. I shall never dare to look at her again after I've made
her 'dangerously angry.' What can that mean? I used to vex Mother
Martha, often, bu