tried to do a really unselfish act and find you for
him. Because we don't want him to be married at all."

"It isn't because we don't like _you_," Oswald cut in, now emerging from
the bushes; "and if he must marry, we'd sooner it was you than any one.
Really we would."

"A generous concession, Margaret," the strange clergyman uttered, "most
generous, but the plot thickens. It's almost pea-soup-like now. One or
two points clamor for explanation. Who are these visitors of yours? Why
this Red Indian method of paying morning calls? Why the lurking attitude
of the rest of the tribe which I now discern among the undergrowth?
Won't you ask the rest of the tribe to come out and join the glad
throng?"

Then I liked him better. I always like people who know the same songs we
do, and books and tunes and things.

The others came out. The lady looked very uncomfy, and partly as if she
was going to cry. But she couldn't help laughing, too, as more and more
of us came out.

"And who," the clergyman went on--"who in fortune's name is Albert? And
who is his uncle? And what have they or you to do in this _galere_--I
mean garden?"

We all felt rather silly, and I don't think I ever felt more than then
what an awful lot there were of us.

"Three years' absence in Calcutta or elsewhere may explain my ignorance
of these details, but still--"

"I think we'd better go," said Dora. "I'm sorry if we've done anything
rude or wrong. We didn't mean to. Good-bye. I hope you'll be happy with
the gentleman, I'm sure."

"I _hope_ so too," said Noel, and I know he was thinking how much nicer
Albert's uncle was. We turned to go. The lady had been very silent
compared with what she was when she pretended to show us Canterbury. But
now she seemed to shake off some dreamy silliness, and caught hold of
Dora by the shoulder.

"No, dear, no," she said, "it's all right, and you must have some
tea--we'll have it on the lawn. John, don't tease them any more.
Albert's uncle is the gentleman T told you about. And, my dear
children, this is my brother that I haven't seen for three years."

"Then he's a long-lost too," said H. O.

The lady said, "Not now," and smiled at him. And the rest of us were
dumb with confounding emotions. Oswald was particularly dumb. He might
have known it was her brother, because in rotten grown-up books if a
girl kisses a man in a shrubbery that is not the man you think she's in
love with; it always turns out to be a broth