One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, after a few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to prepare for the

"THANK-YOU" GAME!

"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; and their host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightest idea what it was; they never had heard of it before.

"Well, then, how can we play it?" insisted the little spokes-people.

"I don't know," answered Dorry, looking in a puzzled way at the door.

"All join hands and form a circle!" cried a voice.

Every one arose, and soon the circle stood expectant.

"Your dear great-great fairy godmother is coming to see you," continued the voice. "She is slightly deaf, but you must not mind that."

"Oh, no, no!" cried the laughing circle, "not in the least."

"She brings her white gnome with her," said the invisible speaker; "and don't let him know your names, or he will get you into trouble."

"No, no, no!" cried the circle, wildly.

A slight stirring was heard in the hall, the doors opened, and in walked the big fairy godmother and her white gnome.

She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, and a long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. The rest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cut in it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tied around the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrow ribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, and a round opening for his mouth. The godmother dragged in a large sack, and the gnome bore a stick with bells at the end.

"Let me into the ring, dears," squeaked the fairy godmother.

"Let me into the ring, dears," growled the white gnome.

The circle obeyed.

"Now, my dears," squeaked the fairy godmother, "I've brought you a bagful of lovely things, but, you must know, I am under an enchantment. All I can do is to let you each take out a gift when your turn comes, but when you send me a 'Thank-you,' don't let my white gnome know who it is, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back without opening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keep the gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle moving until my gnome knocks three times."

Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly the blindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointed it straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd was the happy youth pointed at.

"Help yourself, my dear," squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held the sack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out a neat paper parcel.

"Hey! What did you say, dear?" she squeaked. "Take hold of the stick."

Tommy seized the end of the stick, and said, in a hoarse tone, "Thank you, ma'am."

"That's John Stevens," growled the gnome. "Put it back! put it back!"

But it wasn't John Stevens, and so Tommy kept the parcel.

The circle moved again. The gnome knocked three times, and this time the stick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct her neighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that.

"Help yourself, child," she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcel which she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied with ribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you," but the blindfolded gnome was too sharp for her.

"No, no!" he growled. "That's Dorothy Reed. Put it back! put it back!"

And Dorry, with a playful air of protest, dropped the pretty parcel into the bag again.

So the merry game went on; some escaped detection and saved their gifts; some were detected and lost them; but the godmother would not suffer those who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of the game, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all had parcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do but straighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak—and if it wasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to be out of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had known all along it was he.

"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now—" starting in pursuit—"let's see who the white gnome is!"

They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very much astonished when Ed Tyler came to light.

"That is a royal game!" declared some. "Grand!" cried others. "Fine!" "First-rate!" "Glorious!" "Capital!" "As good as Christmas!" said the rest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing.

Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things by halves, and he certainly had distinguished himself in the "Thank-you" game. Every gift was worth having. There were lovely bon-bon boxes, pretty trinkets, penknives, silver lead-pencils, paint-boxes, puzzles, thimbles, and scissors, and dozens of other nice things.

What delighted "Oh, oh's!" and merry "Ha, ha's!" rang through that big parlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, had great fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade." After a deal of laughter and merry bargaining, the gifts became properly distributed, and then the piano and violin significantly played "Home, Sweet Home!" Soon sleigh-bells were jingling outside; Jack was stamping his feet to knock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving the Manning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from the village were speeding chuck-a-ty-chuck, cling, clang, jingle-y-jing, along the broad carriage-way.

Ah! what a bundling-up time! What scrambling for tippets, shawls, hoods, and cloaks; what laughter and frolic; what "good-byes" and "good-byes;" what honest "thank-you's" to Mr. Reed; and what shouting and singing and hurrahing, as the noisy sleigh-loads glided away, and above all, what an "Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald, standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle from the door.

* * * * *

And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put away for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins, were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room.

"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"

"Never saw anything like it," said Donald. "Every one was delighted; Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what is it? What did you want to show me?"

"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk that we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't. Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthest roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I felt nervous about looking at it alone."

"Fetch it out," said Donald.

She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or three old copy-books.

"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of disappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?

"It's not copy-writing at all," said Don, peering into the first one, "why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read, "'Kate Reed.' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"

"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale with excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.

"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."

"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep a wink with it in here." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Don't cry, Dot; please don't," pleaded Don, putting his arm around her. "We've been so happy all day, and finding this ought to make you all the happier. It will tell us so much about Aunt Kate, you know."

"No, Don, it will not. I feel morally sure Uncle will never let us read it."

"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found the book, and Uncle will be delighted, and we'll all read it together."

Dorry wiped her eyes.

"I don't know about that," she said, decidedly, and much to her brother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what is best to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody to read; we'll put it back in the bureau. My, how late it must be growing," she continued, with a shiver, as, laying the parcel in, she closed the drawer so softly that the hanging brass handles hardly moved. "Now, good-night, Donald."

"What a strange girl you are," he said, kissing her bright face. "Over a thing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady."

"Good-night, old gentleman," said Dorry, soberly, as she closed the door.



CHAPTER XVI.

A DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET.

"IS Miss Dorothy in?"

"I think she is, Miss Josie. And yet, it seems as if she went over to the Danbys'. Take a seat, Miss, and I'll see if she's in her room."

"Oh, no, Kassy! I'll run up myself and surprise her."

So the housemaid went down stairs to her work, for she and Liddy were "clearin' up" after the house-picnic of the day before; and Josie Manning started in search of Dorry.

"I'll look in her cosey corner first," said Josie to herself.

Only those friends who knew the Reeds intimately had seen Dorry's cosey corner. Mere acquaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though a part of the young lady's pretty bedroom, it was so shut off by a high folding screen that it formed a complete little apartment in itself. It was decorated with various keepsakes and fancy articles—some hanging upon the walls, some standing on the mantelshelf, and some on the cabinet in which she kept her "treasures." With these, and its comfortable lounge and soft Persian rug, and, more than all, with its bright little window over-head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the gable-roof of the summer-kitchen, it was indeed a most delightful place for the little maid. And there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote letters, and thought out, as well as she could, the plans and problems of her young life. In very cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth made the corner doubly comfortable, and on mild days, a dark fire-board and a great vase of dried grasses and red sumac branches made it seem to Dorry the brightest place in the world.

Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that now, when she looked in and found it empty, she turned back. The cosey corner was not itself without Dorry.

"She's gone to the Danbys' after all," thought Josie, standing irresolute for a moment.

"I'll run over and find her. No, I'll wait here."

So stepping into the cosey corner again, but shrugging her pretty shoulders at its loneliness, she tossed her hood and shawl upon the sofa, and, taking up a large book of photographic views that lay there, seated herself just outside the screen, where she would be sure to see Dorry if she should enter the room. Meantime, a pleasant heat came in upon her from the warm hall, not a sound was to be heard, and she was soon lost in the enjoyment of the book, which had carried her across the seas, far into foreign scenes and places.

But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She was over-head, in the garret, kneeling beside a small leather trunk, which was studded with tarnished brass nails.

How dusty it was!

"I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up here," thought Dorry, "for the boys poked it out from away, 'way back under the rafters. If she had known of it, she would have put it with the rest of the trunks."

Dorry laid the dusty lid back carefully, noting, as she did so, that it was attached to the trunk by a strip of buff leather inside, extending its entire length, and that its buff-paper lining was gay with sprays of pink rose-buds. In one of the upper corners of the lid was a label bearing this inscription:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kate Reed. From Papa. October 1849. For my Dolly. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh! it's Aunt Kate's own writing!" exclaimed Dorry, under her breath, as, still kneeling, she read the words.

"'From Papa,'" she repeated slowly,—"her Papa; that was Donald's and my Grandfather. And she wrote this in October, 1849—ten whole years before we were born! and when she was only a little girl herself!"

Then, with reverent hands Dorry lifted the top article—a soft, pink muslin dress, which had a narrow frill of yellowish lace, basted at the neck. It seemed to have been cast aside as partly worn out. Beneath this lay a small black silk apron, which had silk shoulder-straps, bordered with narrow black lace, and also little pockets trimmed with lace. Dorry, gently thrusting her hand into one of these pockets, drew forth a bit of crumpled ribbon, some fragments of dried rose-leaves, and a silver thimble marked "K. R." She put it on her thimble-finger; it fitted exactly.

"Oh dear!" thought Dorry, as, with flushed cheeks and quick-beating heart, she looked at the dress and apron on her lap, "I wish Don would come!" Then followed a suspicion that perhaps she ought to call him, and Uncle George too, before proceeding further; but the desire to go on was stronger. Aunt Kate was hers,—"my aunty, even more than Don's," she thought, "because he's a boy, and of course doesn't care so much;" and then she lifted a slim, white paper parcel, nearly as long as the trunk. It was partly wrapped in an old piece of white Canton crape, embroidered with white silk stars at regular intervals. Removing this, Dorry was about to take off the white paper wrapper also, when she caught sight of some words written on it in pencil.

"Dear Aunt Kate!" thought Dorry, intensely interested; "how carefully she wrapped up and marked everything! Just my way." And she read:

My dear little Delia: I am fourteen to-day, too old for dolls, so I must put you to sleep and lay you away. But I'll keep you, my dear dolly, as long as I live, and if I ever have a dear little girl, she shall wake you and play with you and love you, and I promise to name her Delia, after you. Kate Reed. August, 1852.

With a strange conflict of feeling, and for the moment forgetting everything else, Dorry read the words over and over, through her tears; adding, softly: "Delia! That's why my little cousin was named Delia."

And, as she slowly opened the parcel, it almost seemed to her that Cousin Delia, Aunt Kate's own little girl, had come back to life and was sitting on the floor beside her, and that she and Delia always would be true and good, and would love Aunt Kate for ever and ever.

But the doll, Delia, recalled her. How pretty and fresh it was!—a sweet rosy face, with round cheeks and real hair, once neatly curled, but now pressed in flat rings against the bare dimpled shoulders. The eyes were closed, and when Dorry sought for some means of opening them, she found a wire evidently designed for that purpose. But it had become so rusty and stiff that it would not move. Somehow the closed eyes troubled her, and before she realized what she was doing, she gave the wire such a vigorous jerk that the eyes opened—bright, blue, glad eyes, that seemed to recognize her.

"Oh, you pretty thing!" exclaimed Dorry, as she kissed the smiling face and held it close to her cheek for a moment. "Delia never can play with you, dear; she was drowned, but I'll keep you as long as I live—Who's that? Oh, Don, how you startled me! I am so glad you've come."

"Why, what's the matter, Dot?" he asked, hurrying forward, as she turned toward him, with the doll still in her arms. "Not crying?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm not crying," she said, hastily wiping her eyes, and surprised to find them wet. "See here! This is Delia. Oh, Don, don't laugh. Stop, stop!"

Checking his sudden mirth, as he saw Dorry's emotion, and glancing at the open trunk, which until now had escaped his notice, he began to suspect what was the matter.

"Is it Aunt Kate's?" he asked, gravely.

"Yes, Don; Aunt Kate's doll when she was a little girl. This is the trunk that I told you about—the one that the diary fell out of."

A strong, boyish step was heard coming up the garret stairs: "Who is it? Run, Don, don't let any one come up here!" begged Dorry.

"It's Ed Tyler,—Hold up, Ed!" cried Don, obediently. "I'll be there in a minute." Then hurriedly kissing Dorry, and with a hearty "Cheer up, little sister!" he was gone.

Don's pleasant tone and quick step changed the current of Dorry's thoughts. More than this, a bright beam of sunlight now shone through the dusty window. Sobbing no longer, she carefully wrapped the doll in the same paper and piece of silk that had held it for so many years. As she arose, holding the parcel in her hand, the pink dress and black silk apron on her lap fell to the floor.

A sudden thought came to her. Dorry never could remain sad very long at a time. She hastily opened the parcel again.

"Lie down there, Delia dear," she said, gently placing the doll on the rose-buds of the still open trunk-lid. "Lie down there, till I put on these things. I'm going to take you down to see your uncle!"

"Won't he be astonished though!" murmured Dorry, as, half smiling, half sighing, she took off her dress in great excitement, and put on, first the pink muslin, and then the black silk apron, fastening them at the back as well as she could, with many a laborious twist and turn of her white arms, and with a half-puzzled consciousness that the garments were a perfect fit.

The dress, which was high at the neck, had short sleeves, and was gathered to a belt at the waist. Tying the apron at the back, so that the ends of its black ribbon bow hung down over the full pink skirt, she proceeded to adjust the silk straps that, starting in front at the belt, went over the shoulders and down again at the back.

As she did this, and perceived that each strap was wide on the top and tapered toward the belt, it struck her that the effect must be quite pretty. Bending to take up Delia, she saw, for the first time, among the bits of calico and silk lying in the bottom of the trunk, what proved to be a wide-brimmed straw hat. In another moment it was on her head, and with a quick little laugh, she caught up Delia and ran down the stairs.

* * * * *

Looking neither to right nor left, Dorry sped down the next flight; across the hall, on tiptoe now, and so on to the study door, which stood ajar just enough to admit her slight figure.

Mr. Reed, who sat at the table busily writing, did not even look up when she entered.

"How d'ye do?" she exclaimed, courtesying to her uncle, with the doll in her arms.

He sprang to his feet in amazement.

"Don't be frightened. It's only Dorry. I just wanted to surprise you! See," she continued, as he stood staring wildly at her, "I found all these things up stairs. And look at the dolly!"

By this time the hat had fallen off, and she was shaking her tumbled hair at him in a vehement manner, still holding Delia in her extended arms.

"Good-bye, Ed!" rang out Donald's clear voice from the piazza, and in an instant he was looking through the study window, much surprised to see a quaint little pink figure folded in Uncle George's embrace, while Dorry's voice was calling from somewhere: "Be careful! Be careful! You'll break Delia!"

* * * * *

Ed Tyler, sauntering homeward, met Josie Manning on her way to the Danbys'. "I think Dorry has gone to see Charity Danby," she said, "and I'm going after her. I've been waiting at her house, ever so long."

"I've been at Don's too," said Ed. "Just come from there."

Josie laughed. "As if I didn't know that," she said. "Why, I was in Dorry's room all the time. First I heard Don run up to the garret for something, then you went up after him, and then you both passed down again, and out upon the piazza. I suppose you went to the old carriage-house, as usual, didn't you?"



"Of course we did. We're turning it into a first-class gymnasium. Mr. Reed has given it to Don outright, and I tell you it will be a big thing. Jack's helping us. Don has saved up lots of pocket-money, and Mr. Reed gives him all the lumber he wants. Just you wait. But, by the way, Dorry isn't out. Don told me himself she was rummaging up in the garret."

"Why, that's queer!" was Josie's surprised exclamation. "Then it must have been Dorry who ran down stairs. It couldn't be though; some one, with a hat on and a short-sleeved pink dress, went by like a flash."

"Don't you know Dorry Reed yet?" laughed Ed, "she is always dressing up. Why, one day when I was there, she came into Don's room dressed like an old woman,—cap, crutch, corked wrinkles and all complete; never saw anything like it. What a little witch she is!"

"I think she's an angel!" said Josie, warmly.

"A pretty lively angel!" was Ed's response.

But the tone of admiration was so genuine that it satisfied even Josie Manning.

* * * * *

"Well!" exclaimed Donald, noting Dorry's strange costume, as he entered the room, after shouting a second good-by to Ed Tyler.

"Well!" echoed Dorry, freeing herself from her uncle's arms, and with a little jump facing Donald,—"what of it? I thought I'd pay Uncle a visit with my pretty doll-cousin here" (hugging Delia as she spoke), "and he started as if I were a ghost. Didn't you, Uncle?"

"I suppose I did," assented Mr. Reed, with a sad smile. "In fact, Dorry, I may as well admit, that what is fun to you, happened, for once, not to be fun to me."

"But it wasn't fun to me!" cried that astonishing Dorry. "It was—it was—tell him, Don; you know."

There was no need for Don to speak. Dorry's flushed cheeks, shining eyes, and excited manner told their own story; and both her brother and uncle, because they knew her so well; felt quite sure that in a moment Dorothy's own self would have a word to say.

Still folding the dolly to her heart and in both arms, and with the yearning look of a little child, the young girl, without moving from the middle of the room, looked wistfully toward the window, as though she saw outside some one whom she loved, but who could not or would not come to her. Then she stepped toward her uncle, who had seated himself again in the big chair, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said earnestly:

"Uncle, I've been brought nearer to Aunt Kate to-day than ever in my life before, and the lonely feeling is almost all gone. I found a little old trunk, far back under the rafters, with her doll in it, her clothes and her writing; and now I see how real she was,—not like a dream, as she used to seem, but just one of us. You know what I mean."

"A trunk, Dorry! What? Where?" was all the response Uncle George made, as, hastening from the room, he started for the garret, keeping ahead of the others all the way.



CHAPTER XVII.

DORRY ASKS A QUESTION.

DONALD and Dorothy followed their uncle closely, though he seemed to have forgotten them; and they were by his side when he reached the little treasure-trove, with its still opened lid.

Paying no attention to their presence, Mr. Reed hurriedly, but with the tenderest touch, took out every article and examined it closely.

When he came to the diary, which Dorry that day had restored unopened to the trunk, he eagerly scanned its pages here and there; then, to the great disappointment of the D's he silently laid it down, as if intending later to take it away with him.

"May we see that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, softly. "Isn't it right for us to read it? We found out it was her diary; but I put it back."

Without replying, Uncle George went on with his examination. Finally, replacing the last article in the trunk, he closed the lid with a hopeless air, and turned toward Dorry, saying:

"Dorothy, where is that doll? It must go back where you found it, and the clothes too."

She handed it to him without a word—all her hope turned to bitterness.

But as he took it, noting her grieved expression, he said:

"Thank you, my dear. You are too old to play with dolls—"

"Oh, Uncle, it is too bad for you to speak so! You know I didn't mean to play with it. It isn't a dolly to me; she's more like—like something with life. But you can shut her up in the dark, if you want to."

"Dorry! Dorry!" said Don, reproachfully. "Don't be so excited."

In a flash of thought, Dorry made up her mind to speak—now or never.

"Uncle!" said she, solemnly, "I am going to ask you a question; and, if it is wrong, I can't help it. What is the reason that you always feel so badly when I speak of Aunt Kate?"

He looked at her in blank surprise for an instant; then, as she still awaited his reply, he echoed her words, "Feel badly when you speak of Aunt Kate! Why, my child, what do you mean?"

"I mean, Uncle dear, that there is a secret in the house; something you have never told Don and me. It's always coming up and making mischief, and I don't think it's right at all. Neither does Don."

"That's so, Uncle," said Donald, emphatically; "we feel sure there is something that gives you trouble. Why not let us share it with you? Remember, we are not little children any longer."

The uncle looked quickly from one to the other, mentally deciding that the children could be told only the facts that were positively known to him; then seating himself on the corner of a large chest, he drew Don and Dorry towards him.

"Yes, my children," he said, in his own hearty way, as if already a load had been taken from his mind, "there is something. It is right that I should tell you, and this is as good a time as any. Put the doll away, Dorry" (he spoke very gently now), "wherever you please, and come down stairs. It is chilly up here—and, by the way, you will catch cold in that thin gown. What have we been thinking of all this while?"

"Oh, I'm as warm as toast, Uncle," she replied, at the same time taking her pretty merino dress from the old chair upon which she had thrown it, scarcely an hour ago; "but I suppose it's always better to be on the safe side, as Liddy says."

"Much better," said Uncle, nodding with forced cheerfulness. "Down with you, Dot. We'll join you in a minute."

Dorry, as she left them, saw her uncle stooping low to peer into the far roof-end of the garret, and she had time to place Delia carefully in her treasure-cabinet, put on the warmer dress, and be ready to receive her uncle and Donald before they made their appearance.

"May we be your guests, Dot?" asked Uncle George, at her door.

"Oh, yes, sir; come right in here," was her pleased response, as, with a conflict of curiosity and dread, Dorry gracefully conducted them into her cosey corner.

"It is too pretty and dainty here for our rough masculine tread, eh, Don?" was Mr. Reed's remark, as, with something very like a sigh, he placed himself beside Dorry upon the sofa, while her brother took a seat close by.

"Well," began Dorry, clasping her hands tightly, and trying to feel calm. "We're ready now, Uncle."

"And so am I," said he. "But first of all, I must ask you both not to magnify the importance of what I am going to reveal."

"About Aunt Kate?" interposed Dorry.

"About Aunt Kate. Do not think you have lost her, because she was really—no, I should say not exactly—"

"Oh," urged Dorry, "don't stop so, Uncle! Please do go on!"

"As I was about to say," resumed Mr. Reed, in a tone of mild rebuke at the interruption, "it really never made any difference to me, nor to your father, and it should make no difference to you now. You know," he continued, with some hesitation, "children sometimes are adopted into families; that is to say, they are loved just the same, and cared for just the same, but they are not own children. Do you understand?"

"Understand what, please, Uncle? Did Aunt Kate adopt any one?" asked Dorry.

"No, but my father and mother did; your grandfather and grandmother Reed, you know," said he, looking at the D's in turn, as though he hoped one of them would help him.

"You don't mean, Uncle," almost screamed Dorry, "that it was that—that horrid—"

Donald came to her assistance.

"Was it that man, Uncle?" he asked, quickly. "Ben Buster told me the fellow claimed to be related to us; was he ever adopted by Grandfather Reed?"

"Ugh!" shuddered Dorry.

Very little help poor Uncle George could hope for now from the D's. The only way left was to speak out plainly.

"No, not that man, my children; but Aunt Kate. Aunt Kate was an adopted daughter—an adopted sister; but she was in all other respects one of our family. Never was daughter or sister more truly beloved. When she came to us she was but two years old, an orphan. Grandpa and Grandma Reed had known her parents, and when the little"—here Mr. Reed hastily resolved to say nothing of Eben Slade for the present—"the little girl was left alone in the world, destitute, with no relatives to care for her, my father and mother took her into their home, to bear their name and to be their own dear little daughter.

"When Aunt Kate was old enough, they told her all; but it was her wish that we boys should forget that we were not really her brothers. This was before we came to live in this house.

"Our Nestletown neighbors, never hearing anything of the adoption, naturally supposed that little Kate Reed was our own sister. The secret was known only to our relatives, and one or two old friends, and to Lydia, who was Kate's devoted young nurse and attendant. In fact, we never thought anything about it. To us, as to the world outside, she was Kate Reed—the joy and pride of our home—our sister Kate to the very last. So it really made no serious difference. Don't you see?"

Not a word from either of the listeners.

"Of course, Dorry darling," he said, coaxingly, "this is very strange news to you; but you must meet it bravely, and, as I said before, without giving it undue importance. I wish now that, from the first, you and Donald had been told all this; but indeed your Aunt Kate was always so dear to me that I wished you to consider her, as she considered herself, a relative. It has been my great consolation to think and speak of your father and her as my brother and sister, and to see you, day by day, growing to love and honor her memory as she deserved. Now, do you not understand it all? Don't you see that Aunt Kate is Aunt Kate still?"

"Yes, indeed. I say so, most decidedly," broke forth Donald. "And I am very glad you have told us, Uncle. Aren't you, Dorry?"

Dorry could not speak, but she kissed Uncle George and tried to feel brave.

"Mamma and Aunt Kate were great friends, weren't they?" Donald asked.

"Yes, indeed. Though they became acquainted only a few months before your parents married and departed for Europe, they soon became very fond of each other."

"Then, Uncle," pursued Donald, "why didn't you know mother too? I should think she would have come here to visit Aunt Kate sometimes."

"As your mother was an only child, living alone with her invalid father, she was unwilling to leave him, and so Aunt Kate visited her instead. I wish it had been different, and that I could speak to you and Dorothy more fully of your mother, whom I rarely saw. We all know that she was good and lovely, but I should like to be able to bring her familiarly to your minds. This old home would be all the dearer, if it could be associated with thoughts of your mother and happy days which she had passed here with Aunt Kate."

At this point Mr. Reed was summoned to his study. A gentleman from town had called to see him on business.

"Keep up a good heart, my girl," he said, tenderly, to Dorry, as he left her, "and as soon as you feel like it, take a run out-of-doors with Donald. The bracing air will drive all sad thoughts away."

Dorry tried to smile pleasantly, as she promised to follow his advice. She even begged Don not to wait any longer, assuring him that she would go out and join him very soon.

"That's a good old Dot," said Don, proudly. "I'll wait for you. Where's your hat?"

"No, you go first, Don. I'll be out soon. I really will."

"All right. Ed's out there again by this time. You'll find us in the gymnasium." And off he ran, well knowing that Dorry's heart was heavy, but believing that the truest kindness and sympathy lay in making as light as possible of Uncle George's revelation; which, in his boyish logic, he felt wasn't so serious a thing after all, if looked at in the right spirit.

Dorothy waited until he was out of sight, and then sat down to think it all over.

The result was that when Liddy chanced to pass through the hall, a few moments later, she was startled by hearing half-suppressed sobs.

According to the custom of the house, which made the cosey corner a sort of refuge for Dorry, the good woman, upon entering at the open door, stood a moment wondering what to do. But as the sound of another little sob came from behind the screen, she called out in a cheery voice:

"May I come in, Miss Dorry dear?"

"Y-yes," was the answer. "Oh, Liddy, is that you? Uncle has told us all about it."

"Sakes alive!" cried Liddy, holding up her hands in dismay—"not told you everything?"

"Yes, he has," insisted Dorry, weeping afresh, as Lydia's manner seemed to give her a new right to consider that an awful fact had been revealed to her. "I know now all about it. I haven't any Aunt Kate at all. I'm a-all alone!"

"For shame, Miss Dorry; how can you talk so? You, with your blessed uncle and your brother, to say nothing of them who have cherished you in their arms from the day you were a helpless baby—for shame, Miss, to say such a thing!"

This was presenting matters in a new light.

"Oh, Liddy, you don't know about it. There's no Aunt K-Kate, anyway," sobbed Dorry, rather relieved at finding herself the subject of a good scolding.

"There isn't, eh? Well, I'd like to know why not!" retorted Lydia, furtively wiping her eyes. "I guess there is. I knew, long before you were born, that she was a dear little adopted girl. But what of that? that doesn't mean she wasn't ever a little girl at all. Don't you know, Miss Dorry, child, that a human being's a human being, and folks care for 'em for what they are? It wasn't just belonging to this or that family made Miss Kate so lovely,—it's what she was herself; and I can certify to her bein' as real as you and me are—if that's all that's wanted."

By this time Dorry, though half-comforted, had buried her face in the sofa-pillow.

"Not that I can't feel for you, poor dear," Liddy continued, gently patting the young girl's shoulder, but speaking more rapidly, "many's the time I've wept tears, just to think of you, longing with all your little heart for a mother. I'm a rough old body, my dove, and what are your dear good uncle and Master Donald but menkind, after all, and it's natural you should pine for Aunty. Ah, I'm afraid it's my doings that you've been thinkin' of her all these days, when, may be, if I'd known your dear mother, which I didn't,—and no blame to me neither,—I wouldn't always have been holding Miss Kate up to you. But she was a darling, was your Aunt Kate, as you know by her picture down stairs—don't you, dear?"

Dorry nodded into the cushion, by way of reply.

Liddy gazed at her a moment in sympathizing silence, and then, in a more cheerful tone, begged her to rouse herself.

"It won't do any good to fret about it, you know, Miss Dorry. Come, now, you'll have the awfulest headache that ever was, if you don't brighten up. When you're in trouble, count your blessings—that's what I always say; and you've a big share of 'em after all, dear. Let me make you a nice warm cup of tea—that'll build you up, Miss Dorry. It always helps me when I—Sakes! what's that?"

"What's what, Liddy?" said Dorry, languidly raising her head from the pillow. "Oh, that's—that's her—that's Aunt Kate's frock and apron. Yes, and here's something else. Here's Delia—I'll show her to you."

And so saying, she rose and stepped toward the cabinet.

"Show me Delia! Merciful heavens," cried Liddy, "has the child lost her senses?"

But the sight of the doll reassured her.

"Oh, that's Delia, is it?" she asked, still wondering; "well, where in the world did it come from?"

Dorry told her all about the discovery of the little trunk that had been hidden in the garret so many years.

"Oh, those miserable house-cleaners!" was Liddy's wrathful comment. "Only to think of it! We had 'em workin' up there when you twins were too little to spare me, and I've never felt easy about it since, nor trusted any one but myself to clean that garret. To think of their pushin' things in, 'way out of sight and sound like that!"

This practical digression had a good effect on Dorry. Rousing herself to make the effort, she bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and seizing her hat and shawl, started with a sigh to fulfil her promise to Donald.

And all this time, Liddy sat stroking and folding the little pink dress and black apron.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE GYMNASIUM.

WHEN Dorry reached the "gymnasium," as Ed and Don called it, she could not help smiling at the grand title they had given prematurely to a very unpromising-looking place.

The building had been a fine carriage-house in its day, but of late it had been used mainly by Jack, as a sort of store-house for old barrels, boxes, wheels, worn-out implements, and odds and ends of various kinds. Its respectable exterior had saved it from being pulled down when the new carriage-house was built. Besides Jack's appropriation of a portion of the building, Donald had planked off one end for his own special purposes,—first as a printing-office, later as a carpenter's shop,—and Dorothy had planted vines, which in summer surrounded its big window with graceful foliage; and so it had come to be looked upon as the special property of Jack and the D's.

Consequently, when Donald asked Mr. Reed to allow him to sell or send away the rubbish, and, with the proceeds of the sale of the old iron, added to his own saved-up pocket money, to turn the place into a gymnasium, his uncle not only gave free consent, but offered to let him have help and material, in case the young man should fall short of funds—as he most undoubtedly would.

The project was but a few days old at the time of the house-picnic, but being a vigorous little project, with life in its veins, it grew and prospered finely. Sailor Jack entered heartily into the work—the more so as his gallant fancy conceived the idea of some day setting up near by a sort of ship's-rigging with shrouds and "ratlines," in which to give the boys lessons, and occasionally disport himself, by way of relief, when his sea-longing should become too much for him. Plans and consultations soon were the order of the day, and Dorry, becoming interested, learned more about pulleys, ropes, ladders, beams, strength of timber, and such things, than any other girl in the village.

The building was kept moderately warm by an old stove, which Jack had set up two years before, when Don and Dorry had the printing-press fever (which, by the way, had broken out in the form of a tiny, short-lived newspaper, called The Nestletown Boom), and day after day the boys spent every odd moment of daylight there, assisted in many ways by Dorothy. But perhaps more efficient help was rendered by Jack, when he could spare the time from his horses, and by the village carpenter, when that worthy would deign to keep his engagements.

Besides, Uncle George had agreed that the new tutor should not begin with his pupils until after the Christmas holidays, now close at hand.

Under this hearty co-operation, the work prospered wonderfully.



Pretty soon, boys who came to jeer remained to try the horizontal bar, or the "horse," or the ladder that stretched invitingly overhead from one end of the building to the other. By special suggestion, Don's and Dorry's Christmas gifts from Uncle were a flying-course, a swinging-bar, and a spring-board. Jack and Don carted load after load of sawdust from the lumber-mill—to soften the deck in case of a slip from the rigging, as Jack explained to Lydia—and presto! the gymnasium was in full operation.

All of which explains why Josie Manning and Dorothy Reed bought dark-blue flannel, and sent to town for the latest pattern for gymnasium dresses; why Don and Ed soon exasperated them by comfortably purchasing suits ready made; why Dorry's cheeks grew rosier; why Uncle was pleased; why Jack was proud; and why Lydia was morally sure the D's would break their precious necks, if somebody didn't put a stop to it.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE "G. B. C."

DOROTHY was made very happy one day by Uncle George handing her the little copy-book diary, and saying that she and Donald could read as much of it as they wished.

"Oh, Don; see here!" she exclaimed, holding up the book, as Donald, by invitation, joined her in the Cosey Corner. "It's all right. Uncle says so. We'll begin at the first page and read every single word!"

The diary, it seemed, contained nothing startling, but it gave them an excellent idea of Aunt Kate's happy girlhood. She spoke of many things familiar to them, and above all, they were interested in her frequent allusions to "our new dog, Nero," evidently her own special pet.

Poor Nero! So young then, and now so very old! This was his last winter. He had become blind of late and very feeble; but, nevertheless, when the end came, it was a shock to all, and a sore trial to Don and Dorry. Many a time, after that day, they would stop in their sports to bend beside the little headstone under the evergreens and talk of him—the faithful friend they had loved all their lives, who had reached his prime and died of old age during their own youth.

We must pass rapidly over the next few months, only pausing to say that they were busy ones for the D's. In the first place, the new tutor, as Don expressed it, was "worked by steam" and was "one of the broad-gauge, high-pressure sort;" but Uncle George noted that his nephew and niece made great advancement under what he called Dr. Sneeden's careful and earnest teaching.

But they had, too, their full share of recreation. Don and Ed found the gymnasium not only a favorite resort in the way of pleasure, but also a great aid to their physical development. After a few weeks' exercise, their muscles began to grow stronger and harder, and the startling climbs, leaps, tumbles, hand-springs and somersaults which the boys learned to perform were surprising.

When the summer came, Don and Ed Tyler secretly believed themselves competent to become members of the best circus troupe in the country, and many a boy-visitor was asked to "feel that, will you?" as each young Hercules knotted the upper muscles of his arm in order to astonish the beholder. Even the girls caught the spirit, and, though they would not for the world have had the boys know it, they compared muscle in a mild way among themselves, and Dorry's was declared by admiring friends to be "awfully hard."

Little Fandy Danby, too, after giving himself numberless bruises, became so expert that he finally attained the summit of his ambition by hanging from the horizontal ladder and going hand over hand its entire length, though not without much puffing and panting and a frantic flourishing of little legs.

Don and the boys had great fun in "stumping" each other; which consisted in one performing a certain feat and challenging the others to do it, and if matched in that, then daring them to some bolder and more difficult attempt.

Uncle George himself took part in these contests, and, though often beaten, threatened to distance them all after a few months' practice. "There's a plentiful share of limberness tied up in these old muscles," he would say, "and when it's set free, boys, look out for your laurels!"

Well, the spring passed away and no bones were broken. Boating and bathing, berrying and other sports, came with the advancing season; but the great feature of the summer was the G. B. C., or Girls' Botany Club, of which Dorry was president, Josie Manning secretary, and Dr. Sneeden inspirer, advisory committee, and treasurer, all in one. Nearly all the favorite girls joined, and boys were made honorary members whenever their scientific interest and zeal in hunting for botanical treasures entitled them to that distinction.

Ah, those were happy days! And if the honorary members were troublesome now and then, scaring the girls half to death with lizards, toads, or harmless garter-snakes, why it was only "the boys;" and after all, it really was fun to scream a little by way of lightening the more solid pursuits of the club. Besides, the boys often were a real help, especially in rocky places and in the marshes, and— Well, it was less troublesome to have them than to do without them.

So far, only one real shadow had fallen across the sunny hours; and that was when Dorry had proposed Charity Danby as a member, and some of the foolish girls had objected on the plea that the Danbys were "poor folks."

"Poor folks," indeed! You should have seen their president then! You should have heard her spirited remarks, her good, wholesome arguments, and seen her glowing, indignant presidential countenance! The opposition had been stubborn at first, gathering strength in secret and losing it in public, until at last good sense and kindliness prevailed. The motion to admit Charity as a member of the G. B. C. was carried unanimously, and almost the first she knew about it she was a full member, eagerly searching hill-side and meadow with the rest, and wondering deep in her inmost soul whether she ever, ever could "catch up" to the other girls. They knew so much from books, and she had been able to study so little!

Poor Charity! She was wiser than she knew. Her habit of close observation, and her eager desire to learn, soon made her a valuable addition to the club. She knew where to find every wild flower of that locality in its season, from the trailing arbutus in the spring to the latest bloom of the autumn, and "Charity Danby says so" soon became a convincing argument in many a discussion.

But we must now go back several weeks, and learn how it happened that our busy Charity was able to accept the invitation of the G. B. C.

* * * * *

It was early in July; remnants of exploded fire-crackers still lingered in the trampled grass near Mrs. Danby's white-washed fence. She—busy soul!—was superintending the mending of her home-made chicken-coop now trembling and quivering under the mighty strokes of Daniel David. With one breath the mother was making suggestions to her young carpenter, and with the next screaming to Helen and Isabella to be careful or they would tumble into the pig-pen, when, suddenly, she saw Dorry at the back gate.

"Massy! Here comes Dorothy Reed, looking like a fresh rose, as she is, and not a thing in the house to rights. Well, I can't help it—ten children so, and everything to look after. Ah, Dorothy!" continued Mrs. Danby, exchanging her silent thoughts for active speech, "walk right in, dear, and do please excuse everything. Charity's in the house, picking up and putting away; I'd call her out, but—"

No need to finish the sentence. Dorry, with a cheery "Oh, no, indeed, thank you!" had already vanished under the morning-glories that brightened the doorway.

"Bless her heart!" pursued Mrs. Danby, now talking to Daniel David, "but she's a beauty! Not that my own are humly, either. Charity's no fright, by no means, and there's your sister Amanda—why, only last summer Master Donald's teacher drew a picture of her, because she was so picturesky, which I'll keep to my dying day. There, Dan Dave, you don't need no more slats on that side; take this broken one out here, that's a good child; it scrapes the old hen every time she goes under. Look out! You'll break the whole thing to pieces if you ain't careful. My! How strong boys are!"

Meantime, Dorry, as we know, had entered. The house was out of order, but Charity was doing her best. With one hand she was "picking up and putting away," and with the other stroking the bumped head of baby Jamie. Though now able to walk alone, the little one had just experienced one of his frequent tumbles, and was crying and clinging to Charity's skirts as he trotted beside her. No one else was in the room, and perhaps this was why the busy sister was softly saying to herself, as she worked:



"Queen Elizabeth was one, William-and-Mary's Mary was another, and Lady Jane Grey and Queen Victoria—Oh, do hush, Jamie, dear, I've kissed it twice already—there!"

Suiting the action to the word, she pressed her lips of healing once more upon Jamie's yellow hair, and lifting her head again, she saw Dorry in the doorway laughing.

"Oh, Dorothy, how you startled me! I didn't hear you coming at all! I'm so glad! But you needn't laugh at me, Dorry—I'm only trying to remember a little hist'ry."

"I'm not laughing at you," Dorry protested, merrily. "But it was so funny to hear you putting the English queens into the pots and pans; that was all. Here, let me help a little. Come, Jamie, sit on Dotty's lap, and she'll tell you all about Bluebeard."

"Oh, no; that's too old for him. Tell him about the chickies," suggested Charity, in a business-like way, as, disengaging her gown from his baby clutch, she sprang upon a chair, in order to put something away on the highest shelf of the dresser.

"It's no use," she said, jumping down again, almost angrily, and raising her voice to be heard above Jamie's outcry. "Oh, dear, what does make you so naughty, Baby?"

"He isn't naughty," said Dorry, soothingly; "he's only tired of being indoors. Come, Jamie, we'll go out and play chickie till Charity gets through, and then we'll all take a nice walk."

Jamie seized Dorry's hand instantly, and out they went.

"Be careful!" called Charity, after her, setting a chair down hard at the same time. "Look out, or he'll get right under the cow's feet; he always does."

"I'll be careful," sang out Dorry. "Come as soon as you can. This delightful air will do you good." Then, seeing Ellen Eliza, the ten-year-old Danby girl, standing not far from the house, she led Jamie toward her.



Ellen Eliza had a very tender heart. Every one who knew Mrs. Danby had heard of that tender heart more than once; and so Dorry was not in the least surprised to find Ellen Eliza in the act of "comforting" a draggled-looking fowl, which she held tenderly in her arms in spite of its protest.

"Is it hurt?" asked Dorry.

Ellen Eliza looked up with an anxious countenance as she murmured:

"Oh, no, not exactly hurt; he's complainin'. I think he's hungry, but he won't eat."

"Dear me!" was Dorry's unfeeling comment; "then I'd let him go hungry, I certainly should."

"Oh, no, you couldn't be cruel to a poor sick rooster!" Here Ellen Eliza pressed the uneasy fowl to her heart. "May be, he has a sore throat."

"Do you know what I think?" said Dorry, quite disregarding the patient's possible affliction.

"What?" asked Ellen Eliza, plaintively, as if prepared to hear that her feathered pet was going into a rapid decline. And Dorry went on:

"I think that if people with tender hearts would remember their sisters sometimes, it would be—"

"What do you mean?" interrupted the astonished Ellen Eliza, releasing the now struggling bird as she spoke.

Dorry laid her hand kindly on the little girl's shoulder.

"I'll tell you," she said. "If I were you, I'd help Charity more. I'd take care of this dear little brother sometimes. Don't you notice how very often she is obliged to stay from school to help with the work, and how discouraged she feels about her lessons?"

"No!" answered Ellen Eliza, with wide-open eyes. "I didn't ever notice that. I think it's nice to stay home from school. But, anyhow, Charity wouldn't trust me. She dotes on Jamie so. She's always been afraid I'd let him fall."

Dorry smiled.

"Oh, that was long ago, Ellen. Jamie can walk now, you know, and if you look after him sometimes, you'll soon be able to help Charity wonderfully."

"All right!" was Ellen Eliza's cordial answer. "I'll do it. Somehow, I never thought of it. But I often help Mother. She says I'm the best-hearted of all the children, and so I am. You see if I don't help Charity after this."

The conversion seemed too sudden to be very lasting; but Ellen Eliza, who was really sincere, proceeded at once to put her new resolution into practice. To be sure, her renowned tender heart did not make her all at once an experienced housemaid, seamstress, and nurse, as Charity was; but from that day it made her, at intervals, a willing little hand-maiden, and so gave her sister many a leisure hour for reading and study. More than this, Ellen Eliza and Dorry became close friends in Charity's behalf, and one thing led to another, until Charity actually attended school regularly. She was behind most of the scholars, of course; but very often she spent an hour in the Cosey Corner, where Dorry helped her to study her lessons. Her progress was remarkable.

"You make everything so beautifully plain, I can't help improving," she would say to Dorry. And Dorry would laugh and protest that the teacher was learning as much as the pupil, and that they were a wonderful pair, anyway.

All this while, Charity, bright and hopeful, was doing a goodly share of house duties, and making the Danby home more sunny with her happiness. Little Jamie was her delight, as she was his; but she was no longer jaded and discouraged. Ellen Eliza looked at her with pride, and willingly submitted to the school teaching that Charity, in turn, was able to give her.

"I can't bear 'rithmetic," was the tender-hearted one's comment, "but I have to learn my tables, else Charity'd worry, and Dorry wouldn't like it. And jography's nice, 'cause Pa likes me to tell him about it, when he comes home. Soon's I get big, I mean to make Helen and Is'bella learn their lessons like everything!"

Alas! The new educational movement met with a sudden but temporary check in the shape of the measles. One fine day, that unwelcome visitant came into the house, and laid its hand on poor little Helen. In a few days, Isabella and Jamie were down beside her—not very ill, but all three just ill enough to require a darkened room, careful nursing, and a bountiful supply of Dorry's willing oranges.

This was why Charity, for a time, was cut off from her studies, and why she was quite taken by surprise when word came to her of the G. B. C., and that she was to join it, as soon as the little ones could spare her.

You have seen Charity botanizing on the hill-side with the other girls, but to understand her zeal, you should have heard her defend the science against that sarcastic brother of hers—Daniel David. In vain that dreadful boy hung dried stalks and dead branches all about her room, and put dandelions in her tea cup, and cockles in her hair brush—pretending all the while that he was a good boy bringing "specimens" to his dear sister. In vain he challenged every botanical remark she made, defying her to prove it. She always was equal to the occasion in spirit, if not in knowledge.

One Saturday morning, though, she had her triumph, and it was an event to be remembered. Daniel David had listened, with poorly concealed interest, while Charity was describing a flower to Ellen Eliza,—how it has calyx, corolla, stamens, and pistils; how some flowers have not all these parts, but that all flowers have pistils and stamens,—when he, as usual, challenged her to "prove it."

"Very well," said Charity, with dignity, and yet a little uneasily; "you bring the flowers, and I think I can satisfy Your Majesty."

Out he ran, and in a moment he came back, bearing defiantly a fine red-clover blossom.

"Ha, my lady!" he said, as he handed it to her. "There's the first flower I came to; now let's see you find your pistils and stamens and thingamies."

Instead of replying at once, Charity looked long and silently at the pretty flower in her hand. She seemed rather puzzled and crestfallen. Daniel David laughed aloud; even Mrs. Danby and the poetic Amanda smiled.

"Oh!" said Charity, at last, with an air of great relief. "I see it now. How funny! I never thought of it before; but the clover-blossom isn't one flower at all—it's a good many flowers!"

"Ho! ho!" cried Daniel David. "That's a good one! You can't get out of it in that way, my lady. Can she, Ma?"

Ma didn't know. None of the rest knew; but they all crowded about Charity, while, with trembling fingers, she carefully pulled the blossom to pieces, and discovered that every piece was a flower. "See!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "Dozens of them, and every single one complete,—pistil and stamens and all! Oh, my! Isn't it wonderful?"

"I surrender," said Daniel David.

"But you've helped me to find out something that I didn't know before," said the enthusiastic sister, forgiving in an instant all his past taunting. "I wonder if Dorothy knows it. Let's go right over and ask her."

"Agreed," said Daniel David. "Wait till I dress up a bit." Off he ran, whistling, and in fifteen minutes he and Charity were with Dorry in the Reed sitting-room, examining the separated, tiny clover-flowers through Donald's microscope.

Dorothy explained to them that the clover-blossom or head is a compound flower, because a head is made up of many flowerets, each complete in itself.

But when she went further, and told them that not only the clover, but every dandelion and daisy in the field is made up of many flowers, even Charity appeared incredulous, saying: "What! Do you mean to say that the daisy, with its yellow centre and lovely white petals, is not a flower?"

"No, I don't mean that," said Dorry. "Of course, the daisy is a flower. But it is a compound flower. What you call white petals are not exactly petals. Anyhow, the yellow centre is made up of hundreds of very small flowers. That's what I mean. I have seen them magnified, and they look like yellow lilies."

Daniel David hardly dared to say "prove it" to so elegant a creature as Dorry, but his countenance was so expressive of doubt that the president of the G. B. C. at once proposed that he should go and gather a dandelion and a daisy, for them to pull to pieces and then examine the parts under the microscope.

All of which would have come to pass had not Donald rushed into the house at that moment, calling:

"Dorry! Dorry! Come up on the hill! We're going to set up the targets."



CHAPTER XX.

THE SHOOTING-MATCH.

THE boys were to have a shooting-match.

The targets, eight in number, which had been made by the boys a few days before, were really fine affairs. They were painted on sheets of strong pasteboard, and were each about eighteen inches in diameter. Every circle, from the bull's-eye to the outer ring, was carefully made out, and all the targets were of exactly the same measurements. Eight rough tripods already awaited them at the shooting-range, and each tripod had its upright piece of eighteen-inch plank at the top, to which a pasteboard target was now to be firmly fastened.

On any ordinary occasion one or two tripods would have been sufficient, but on this special day there was to be a real "match," and a target to each man would be required, so that the contestants could show a clear record of every shot. Experience had proved this to be the best plan.

The spot selected for the shooting-range was well adapted to the purpose. It was a plateau or broad strip of level land, forming the summit of the long slope that rose from the apple-orchard back of the Reed mansion. At the rear or eastern limit of this level land was a steep, grassy ridge, called by the D's the second hill.

Perhaps you will see the plateau more clearly if you read this description which Dorry afterward wrote in a letter to a friend at boarding-school:

"Don and the boys have made a rustic summer-house by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the house. It's so high up that you can look across our place from it, and see the lake in front, and the village far down at the left. It is beautiful, at sunset, looking from the summer-house, for then the lake sometimes seems to be on fire, and the trees in the orchard between us and the road send long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if they were alive. You see we really have two hills, and these are separated or joined, whichever you please, by a long level strip more than a hundred feet wide, forming a grassy terrace. I often imagine a long row of enormous giants resting there on the grass side by side, sitting on the great wide level place, with their backs leaning against the second hill, and their feet reaching nearly to the edge of the first hill. Now, I hope you understand. If you don't you will when you come here to visit me this fall. Well, it was on this level ground that we had the shooting-match I'm going to tell you about, and where something happened that I'll never, never forget as long as I live."

While Don and Ed, assisted by the doughty Daniel, are at work setting up the row of targets close to the base of the second hill, so that stray bullets may be safely buried in the soft earth-wall, and while Dorry and Charity are watching the boys from the shady summer-house, we may look into Mr. Reed's study.

He is sitting in his arm-chair by the window, but the warm breeze stealing through the closed blinds is not lulling him to repose; his face is troubled, and he holds something in his hand which he is studying intently, though it seems to give him no satisfaction. It is a small gold chain or necklace, with an old-fashioned square clasp. On a graceful mahogany stand close by are several articles carefully laid together near an open box, as though he had been examining them also. They were there when Donald knocked at the door, a few moments ago, to ask his uncle to come up and see the arrangements for the shooting-match. But Mr. Reed, without unlocking the door, had said he was very busy, and begged Don to excuse him.

"Certainly, Uncle; but I'm sorry," Don had replied, and even while trudging up the hill with the targets his mind had been busy.

"What is the matter? Something is troubling Uncle George yet. I've noticed it very much of late. There's more to be told, and I must soon have a good square talk with him about it. There's no use in putting it off for ever.—We can't excuse him from the match though. Why, it would spoil the whole thing not to have Uncle see it.—Wouldn't it, Dot?" he asked aloud, as Dorry at that moment joined him.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Why, not to have Uncle here at the match."

"I don't understand," she said, looking puzzled.

"Why, the study door's locked and he's very busy. I was just thinking it would be a great shame if he shouldn't come up this afternoon at all."

"What a ridiculous idea!" said Dorry, with a light laugh. "Why, of course, Uncle will come. I'll bring him myself."

And she did.

Of all the merry company that came trooping up the green slope to the shooting-range that afternoon, not a brighter, happier-looking pair was seen than Mr. Reed and Dorry, as they joined the eager crowd of boys and girls. The little maid evidently had chased away his troubles for that day.

Donald was too busy to do much more than glance at them, but that glance did him good; his hearty "Ho, Uncle!" did Mr. Reed good, too.

After a careful inspection of the arrangements, and a few words with Don and the other boys concerning the necessary rules and restrictions for the general safety, Mr. Reed retired to the rustic seat of honor that had been prepared for him. The other spectators stood near by, or settled themselves comfortably upon the turf.

Sailor Jack stood at a respectful distance with the smallest youngsters about him, explaining to them that they'd best "stand close, and keep a sharp lookout; for dry land was a pesky dang'rous place at all times, and now, with bullets flyin' about there was no tellin' what might happen. But if they wanted to see right clever shootin', they could just wait a bit; for Master Donald had the sharpest eye he ever see'd in any youngster on sea or shore."

There were to be eight contestants. All had arrived excepting Ben Buster. He had been invited to shoot, but had loftily replied that he had other affairs on hand, and he'd come if he could; and anyhow, they'd best have a substitute ready.

Mr. Reed's two rifles and Don's and Ed Tyler's were the only fire-arms to be used; for Mr. Reed had objected to a fully equipped party of young gunners ranging across his estate. But they were not like Creedmoor shooters, who must not only use their own special rifles, but must clean them after every shot. The Nestletown boys were used to trying borrowed weapons, and though a few had grumbled at a fellow not being allowed to bring his own gun, the spirit of sport prevailed, and every face wore a look of eager interest in the occasion.

Ben Buster was missing, but a substitute was soon found, and the match began in earnest, four on a side,—the Reds and the Blues,—each wearing ribbon badges of their respective color.

The Blues. The Reds.

EDWARD TYLER, HENRY JONES, BARRY OUTCALT, WILL BURROUGHS, THEODORE HART, FRANK HENDERSON, "BEN BUSTER." DONALD REED.

Dorry had made the four red rosettes and Josie Manning the four blue ones. Besides these, Josie had contributed, as a special prize to the best marksman, a beautiful gold scarf-pin, in the form of a tiny rifle, and the winner was thenceforth to be champion shot of the club, ready to hold the prize against all comers.

Ed Tyler had carefully marked off the firing line at a distance of forty paces, or about one hundred feet from the targets; and it had been agreed that the eight boys should fire in regular order,—first a Blue, then a Red, one shot at a turn, until each had fired fifteen times in all. This was a plan of their own, "so that no fellow need wait all day for his turn." In the "toss-up" for the choice of targets and to decide the order of shooting, the Reds had won; and they had chosen to let the Blues lead off.

As Ed Tyler was a "Blue," and Don a "Red," they found themselves opponents for once. Both were considered "crack shots," but Don soon discovered that he had a more powerful rival in another of the "Blues"—one Barry Outcalt, son of the village doctor. It soon became evident that the main contest lay between these two, but Don had gained on his competitor in the sixth round by sending a fourth bullet into the bull's-eye, to Barry's second, when Ben Buster was seen strolling up the hill. Instantly his substitute, a tall, nervous fellow, nicknamed Spindle, proposed to resign in Ben's favor, and the motion was carried by acclamation,—the Blues hoping everything, and the Reds fearing nothing, from the change.

Master Buster was so resolute and yet comical, in his manner, that everyone felt there would be fun if he took part. Seeing how matters stood as to the score, he gave a knowing wink to Barry Outcalt, and said he "didn't mind pitchin' in." He had never distinguished himself at target practice, but he had done a good deal of what Dorry called "real shooting" in the West. Besides, he was renowned throughout the neighborhood as a successful rabbit-hunter.

Shuffling to his position, he stood in such a shambling, bow-legged sort of an attitude that even the politest of the girls smiled; and those who were specially anxious that the Reds should win felt more than ever confident of success.

If Don had begun to flatter himself that it was to be an easy victory, he was mistaken. He still led the rest; but for every good shot he made after that, Ben had already put a companion hole, or its better, in his own target. The girls clapped; the boys shouted with excitement. Every man of the contestants felt the thrill of the moment.

The Blues did their best; and with Outcalt and Ben on that side, Don soon found that he had heavy work to do. Moreover, just at this stage of the shooting, one of the Reds seemed to contract a sudden ambition to dot the extreme outer edge of his target. This made the Blues radiant, and would have disconcerted the Reds but for Don's nerve and pluck. He resolved that, come what might, he would keep cool; and his steadiness inspired his comrades.

"Crack!" went Don's rifle, and the bull's-eye winked in response. A perfect shot!

"Crack!" went Ed's, beginning a fresh round, and his bull's-eye didn't wink. The second ring, however, showed the bullet's track.

"Crack!" The next Red left his edge-dot on the target, as usual.

"Crack!" went Outcalt's rifle, and the rim of the bull's-eye felt it.

Will Burrough's bullet went straight to the left edge of the centre.

Hart, the third Blue, sent a shot between targets, clean into the earth-wall.

"Crack!" went the next Red. Poor Henderson! His target made no sign.

Ben Buster, the Blue, now put in his third centre shot. He was doing magnificently.

In this round, and in the next, Donald hit the centre, but it was plain that his skill alone would not avail to win the match, unless his comrades should "brace up," and better their shots; so he tried a little generalship. He urged each of the three in turn not to watch the score of the enemy at all, nor to regard the cheers of the Blues, but to give attention solely to making his own score as high as possible. This advice helped them, and soon the Reds once more were slightly ahead of the Blues, but the advantage was not sufficient to insure them a victory. As the final rounds drew near, the interest became intense. Each marksman was the object of all eyes, as he stepped up to the firing-line, and the heat of the contest caused some wild shooting; yet the misses were so evenly divided between the two companies that the score remained almost a tie.

Ed Tyler advanced to the firing-line. His shot gave the Blues' score a lift.

Now for the rim-dotter. He pressed his lips together, braced every nerve, was two whole minutes taking aim, and this time put his dot very nearly in the centre!

Outcalt was bewildered. He had been so sure Jones would hit the rim, as usual, that now he seemed bound to do it in Jones's stead. Consequently, his bullet grazed the target and hid its face in the earth-wall.

The second Red fired too hastily, and failed.

Third Blue—a bull's eye!

Third Red—an "outer."

Ben Buster stepped to the line. The Blues cheered as he raised his gun. He turned with a grand bow, and levelled his piece once more. But triumph is not always victory. His previous fine shooting had aroused his vanity, and now the girls' applause quite flustered him. He missed his aim! Worse still, not being learned in the polite art of mastering his feelings, he became vexed, and in the next round actually missed his target entirely.

Poor shooting is sometimes "catching." Now, neither Reds nor Blues distinguished themselves, until finally only one shot was left to be fired on each side; and, so close was the contest, those two shots would decide the day.

It lay between Ben Buster and Donald.

Each side felt sure that its champion would score a bull's-eye, and if both should accomplish this, the Reds would win by two counts. But if Ben should hit the bull's-eye, and Don's bullet should fall outside of even the very innermost circle, the Blues would be the victors. It was simply a question of nerve. Ben Buster, proud of his importance, marched to position, feeling sure of a bull's-eye. But, alas, for over-confidence! The shot failed to reach that paradise of bullets, but fell within the first circle, and so near the bull's-eye that it was likely to make the contest a tie, unless Donald should score a centre.

Don had now achieved the feat of gaining nine bull's-eyes out of a possible fifteen. He must make it ten, and that with a confusing chorus of voices calling to him: "Another bull's-eye, Don!" "One more!" "He can't do it!" "Fire lower!" "Fire higher!" "Don't miss!"

It was a thrilling moment, and any boy would have been excited. Don was. He felt his heart thump and his face flush, as he stepped up to the firing-line. Turning for an instant he saw Dorry looking at him proudly, and as she caught his glance, she gave her head a saucy, confident little toss as if sure that he would not miss.

"Ay! ay! Dot," said Don under his breath; and, reassured by her confidence, he calmly raised the gun to his shoulder and took careful aim.

It seemed an age to the spectators before the report broke upon the sudden hush of expectation. Then, those who were watching Don saw him bend his head forward with a quick motion, and for a second peer anxiously at the target. Then he drew back carelessly, but with a satisfaction that he could not quite conceal.

A few moments later, the excited Reds came running up, wildly waving Don's target in their arms. His last bullet had been the finest shot of the day, having struck the very centre of the bull's-eye. Even Ben cheered. The Reds had won. Donald was the acknowledged champion of the club.

But it was trying to three of the Reds, and to the Blues worse than the pangs of defeat, to see that pretty Josie Manning pin the little golden rifle on the lapel of Donald's coat.

Little he thought, amid the cheering and the merry breaking-up that followed, how soon his steadiness of hand would be taxed in earnest!

Mr. Reed, after pleasantly congratulating the winning side and complimenting the Blues upon being so hard to conquer, walked quickly homeward in earnest conversation with Sailor Jack.



CHAPTER XXI.

DANGER.

THE company slowly dispersed. Some of the young folk cut across lots to their homes; others, remembering errands yet to be attended to in the village, directed their course accordingly. And finally, a group of five boys, including Donald and Ed Tyler, started off, being the last to leave the shooting-range. They were going down the hill toward the house, talking excitedly about the match, and were just entering the little apple-orchard between the hill and the house, when they espied, afar off, a large dog running toward them.

The swiftness and peculiar gait of the animal attracted their attention, and, on a second look, they noted how strangely the creature hung its head as it ran.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Don, "there's something wrong there. See! He's frothing at the mouth. It's a mad dog!"

"That's so!" cried Ed. "Hurry, boys! Make for the trees!"

A glance told them plainly enough that Don was right. This was a terrible foe, indeed, for a party of boys to encounter. But the apple-trees were about them, and all the boys, good and bad climbers alike, lost not a moment in scrambling up into the branches.

All but Donald: he, too, had started for one of the nearest trees, when suddenly it occurred to him that the girls had not all left the second hill. Most of them had quitted the range in a bevy, when the match was over; but two or three had wandered off to the summer-house, under the apple-tree, where they had been discussing the affairs and plans of the Botany Club. Don knew they were there, and he remembered the old ladder that leaned against the tree; but the dog was making straight for the hill, and would be upon them before they could know their danger! Could he warn them in time? He would, at least, try. With a shout to his companions: "The girls! the girls!" he turned and ran toward the hill at his utmost speed, the dog following, and the boys in the trees gazing upon the terrible race, speechless with dread.

Donald felt that he had a good start of his pursuer, however, and he had his gun in his hand; but it was empty. Luckily, it was a repeating-rifle; and so, without abating his speed, he hastily took two cartridges from his jacket and slipped them into the chamber of the gun.

"I'll climb a tree and shoot him!" he said to himself, "if only I can warn the girls out of the way."

"Girls! Girls!" he screamed. But as he looked up, he saw, descending the hill and sauntering toward him, his sister and Josie Manning, absorbed in earnest conversation.

At first he could not utter another sound, and he feared that his knees would sink under him. But the next instant he cried out with all his might:

"Back! Back! Climb the tree, for your lives! Mad dog! Mad dog!"

The two girls needed no second warning. The sight of the dreadful object speeding up the slope in Donald's tracks was enough. They ran as they never had run before, reached the tree in time, and, with another girl whom they met and warned, clambered, breathless, up the ladder to the sheltering branches.

Then all their fears centred upon Donald, who by this time had reached the plateau just below them, where the shooting-match had been held. He turned to run toward the apple-tree, when, to the horror of all, his foot slipped, and he fell prostrate. Instantly he was up again, but he had not time to reach the tree. The dog already was over the slope, and was making toward him at a rapid, swinging gait, its tongue out, its bloodshot eyes plainly to be seen, froth about the mouth, and the jaws opening and shutting in vicious snaps.

Dorry could not stand it; she started to leave the tree, but fell back with closed eyes, while the other girls clung, trembling, to the branches, pale and horrified.

To the credit of Donald be it said, he faced the danger like a man. He felt that the slightest touch of those dripping jaws would bring death, but this was the time for action.

Hastily kneeling behind a stump, he said to himself: "Now, Donald Reed, they say you're a good shot. Prove it!" And steadying his nerves with all the resolution that was in him, he levelled his rifle at the advancing dog and fired.

To his relief, the poor brute faltered and dropped—dead, as Don thought. But it was only wounded; and, staggering to its feet again, it made another dash forward.



Don was now so encouraged, so thankful that his shot had been true, that, as he raised his gun a second time, he scarcely realized his danger, and was almost as cool as if firing at the target on the range, although the dog was now barely a dozen feet away. This was the last chance. The flash leaped from his rifle, and at the same moment Donald sprang up and ran for the tree as fast as his legs could carry him. But, before the smoke had cleared, a happy cry came from the girls in the tree. He glanced back, to see the dog lying motionless upon the ground.

Quickly reloading his gun, and never taking his finger from the trigger, he cautiously made his way back to the spot. But there was nothing to fear now. He found the poor brute quite dead, its hours of agony over.

The group that soon gathered around looked at it and at one another without saying a word. Then Dorry spoke: "Stand back, everybody! It's dangerous to go too near. I've often heard that."

A hint was sufficient. Indeed, the shuddering girls already had turned away, and the boys now drew aside, though with rather an incredulous air.

"It ought to be buried deep, just where it lies," suggested Ed; and Donald, nodding a silent assent, added, aloud: "Poor fellow! Whose dog can he be?"

"Why it's our General!" cried one of the boys. "As sure as I live it is! He was well yesterday." Then, turning pale, he added: "Oh, I must go right home—"

"Go with him, some of you fellows," Don said, gravely; "and Dot, suppose you run and let Uncle know. Ask him if we shall bury it right here."

"He will say 'yes,' of course," cried Dot, excitedly, as she started off. "I'll send Jack right back with spades."

"Yes; but tell Uncle!" Don shouted after her.



CHAPTER.

A FROLIC ON THE WATER.

DONALD had won the gratitude of many Nestletown fathers and mothers, and had raised himself not a little in the estimation of the younger folk, by his encounter with the rabid dog. That it was a case of hydrophobia was settled by the testimony of some wagoners, who had seen the poor animal running across the road, but who, being fearful of having their horses bitten, had not attempted to stop him. Though all felt sorry for "General," everybody rejoiced that he had been put out of his misery, and that he had not bitten any one in his mad run through the fields.

As the summer advanced, and base-ball and running-matches proved to be too warm work for the season, the young folk naturally took to the water. Swimming and boating became the order of the day, and the night too; for, indeed, boats shot hither and thither through many a boy's sleep, confounding him with startling surprises and dreamland defeats and victories. But the lake sports of their waking hours were more under control. Donald and Ed Tyler, as usual, were among the most active in various contests with the oars; and as Donald believed that no event was absolutely complete if Dorry were not among either the actors or the spectators, boat-racing soon grew to be as interesting to the girls as to the boys.

The races usually were mild affairs—often impromptu, or sometimes planned in the morning and carried into effect the same afternoon. Now and then, something more ambitious was attempted: boys in rowing suits practised intently for days beforehand, while girls, looking on, formed their own not very secret opinions as to which rowers were most worthy of their support. Some went so far as to wear a tiny bit of ribbon by way of asserting allegiance to this or that crew, which sported the same color in cap, uniform, or flag. This, strange to say, did not act in the least as "a damper" on the pastime; even the fact that girls became popular as coxswains did not take the life out of it; all of which, as Dorry said, served to show the great hardihood and endurance of the boy-character.

After a while, Barry Outcalt, Benjamin Buster, and three others concocted a plot. The five held meetings in secret to complete their arrangements, and these meetings were enlivened with much smothered laughter. It was to be a "glorious joke." A boat-race, of course; and there must be a great show of previous practice, tremendous rivalry, and pressing competition, so that a strong feeling of partisanship would be aroused; while in truth, the race itself was to be a sham. The boats were to reach the goal at the same moment, nobody was to win, yet every one was to claim the victory; the air was to be rent with cries of "foul!" and spurious shouts of triumph, accompanied by vehement demands for a "fresh try." Then a second start was to be made—One, two, three, and off! All was to go well at first, and when the interest of the spectators was at its height, every eye strained and every heart almost at a standstill with excitement, two of the boats were to "foul," and the oarsman of one, in the most tragic and thrilling manner, was to fall over into the astonished lake. Then, amid the screams of the girls and scenes of wild commotion, he was to be rescued, put into his empty boat again, limp and dripping—and then, to everybody's amazement, disregarding his soaked garments and half-drowned state, he was suddenly to take to the oars in gallant style, and come in first at the close, rowing magnificently.

So ran the plot—a fine one truly. The five conspirators were delighted, and each fellow solemnly promised to stand by the rest, and not to breathe a word about it until the "sell" should be accomplished. So far, so good. Could the joke be carried out successfully? As the lake was public property, it was not easy for the two "fouling" boys to find opportunities for practising their parts. To make two boats collide at a given instant, so as to upset one and spill its occupant in a purely "accidental" way, required considerable dexterity. Ben Buster had a happy thought. Finding himself too clumsy to be the chief actor, he proposed that they should strengthen their force by asking Donald Reed to join the conspiracy. He urged that Don, being the best swimmer among the boys, was therefore best fitted to manage the fall into the water. Outcalt, on his part, further suggested that Ed Tyler was too shrewd to be a safe outsider. He might suspect, and spoil everything. Better make sure of this son of a lawyer by taking him into the plan, and appointing him sole judge and referee.

Considerable debate followed—the pros urging that Don and Ed were just the fellows wanted, and the cons insisting that neither of the two would be willing to take part. Ben, as usual, was the leading orator. He was honestly proud of Don's friendship, and as honestly scornful of any intimation that Don's better clothes and more elegant manners enhanced or hindered his claims to the high Buster esteem. Don was a good fellow, he insisted,—the right sort of a chap,—and that was all there was about it. All they had to do was to let him, Ben, fetch Don and Ed round that very day, and he'd guarantee they'd be found true blue, and no discounting.

This telling eloquence prevailed. It was voted that the two new men should be invited to join. And join they did.

Though Donald generally disliked practical joking, he yielded this time. As nobody was to be hurt, he entered heartily into the plot, impelled both by his native love of fun and by a brotherly willingness to play an innocent joke upon Dorry, who, with Josie Manning, he knew would surely be among the most interested of all the victimized spectators.