Kitabı oku: «Donald and Dorothy», sayfa 14

CHAPTER XXVIII.
DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS

For a time, an outsider looking on would have seen no great change at Lakewood, as the Reed homestead was called. There were the same studies, the same sports, the same every-day life with its in-comings, its out-goings, its breakfasts, dinners, and pleasant home-scenes; there were drives, out-door games, and sails and rambles and visits. Uncle George always was heartily willing to take part, when he could leave his books and papers; and Lydia, busy with household matters, often found opportunities to teach her young lady some of the mysteries of the kitchen.

"It's high time, Miss Dorry, that you learned these things," Lydia would say, "even if you are to be a grand lady, for you'll be the mistress of this house in time; and if anything should happen to me, I don't know where things would go to. Besides, as your uncle truly says, every lady should understand housekeeping. So, Miss Dorry dear, if you please to do so, we'll bake bread and cake on Saturday, and I'll show you at to-morrow's ironin' how we get Mr. Reed's shirt-bosoms so lovely and smooth; and, if you please, you can iron one for him, all with your own pretty hands, Miss."

As a consequence of such remarks, Mr. Reed sometimes found himself eating, with immense relish, cake that had only "just a least little heavy streak in the middle," or wearing linen that, if any one but Dorry had ironed it, would have been cast aside as not fit to put on.

But what matter! She was sure to improve under Lydia's instruction. Besides, her voice was sweet and merry as ever, her step as light and her heart even more glad; for Uncle was always his dear, good self now, and had no mysterious moods and startling surprises of manner for his little girl. In fact, he was wonderfully relieved by having shared his secret with Donald. The boy's stout-hearted, manly way of seeing the bright side of things and scouting all possible suspicions that Dorry was not Dorry, gave Mr. Reed strength and a restfulness that he had not known for years. Unconscious of the shadow still hanging over the home, Dorry, prettier, brighter, and sweeter every day, was the delight of the household; her very faults to their partial eyes added to her charm; for, according to Lydia, "they were uncommon innocent and funny, Miss Dorry's ways were." In fact, the young lady, who had a strong will of her own, would have been spoiled to a certainty but for her scorn of affectation, her love of truth, and genuine faithfulness to whatever she believed to be right.

Donald, on his part, was too boyish to be utterly cast down by the secret that stood between him and Dorry; but his mind dwelt upon it despite his efforts to dismiss every useless doubt.

Fortunately, Eben Slade had not again made his appearance in the neighborhood. He had left Vanbogen's immediately after Jack had paid his rough compliments to him, and he had not been seen there since. But at any moment he might reappear at Lakewood and carry out his threat of obtaining an interview with Dorry. This Donald dreaded of all things, and he resolved that it should not come to pass. How to prevent it was the question. He and his uncle had agreed that she must be spared not only all knowledge of the secret, but all anxiety or suspicion concerning her history; and they and Jack kept a constant lookout for the disagreeable intruder.

Day by day, when alone, Donald pondered over the case, resolved upon establishing his sister's identity, recalling again and again all that his uncle had told him, and secretly devising plans that grew more and more settled in his mind as time went on. Jack, who had been in Mr. Reed's confidence from the first, was now taken fully into Donald's. He was proud of the boy's fervor, but had little hope. Fourteen, nearly fifteen, years was a long time, and if Ellen Lee had hidden herself successfully in 1859 and since, why could she not do so still? Donald had his own opinion. Evidently she had some reason for hiding, or fancied she had; but she must be found, and if so, why should not he, Donald Reed, find her? Yes, there was no other way. Donald was studying logic at the time, and had committed pages of it to memory in the most dutiful manner. To be sure, while these vital plans were forming in his brain, he did not happen to recall any page of the logic that exactly fitted the case, but in some way he flattered himself that he had become rather expert in the art of thinking and of balancing ideas.

"A fellow can't do more than use his wits, after all," he said to himself, "and all this studying and getting ready to enter Columbia College next year, as Uncle says I may, will do well enough afterward; but at present we've something else to attend to."

And, to make a long story not too long and tedious, the end of it was that one bright spring day, months after that memorable afternoon at Vanbogen's, Donald, having had many earnest interviews meanwhile, obtained his uncle's unwilling consent that he should sail alone for England in the next steamer.

Poor Dorry – glad if Don was glad, but totally ignorant of his errand – was too amazed at the bare announcement of the voyage to take in the idea at all.

Lydia, horrified, was morally sure that the boy never would come back alive.

Sailor Jack, on his sea-legs in an instant, gave his unqualified approbation of the scheme.

Uncle George, unconvinced but yielding, answered Donald's questions; agreed that Dorry should be told simply that his uncle was sending him on important business; allowed him to make copies of letters, lists, and documents, even trusted some of the long-guarded and precious relics to his keeping; furnished advice and money, and, in fact, helped him all he could; then resolved the boy should not go after all; and finally, holding Dorry's cold hand as they stood a few days later on the crowded city wharf, bade him good-by and God bless him!

CHAPTER XXIX.
AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

"It was all so sudden," explained Dorothy to Charity Danby, a few weeks afterward, in talking over her brother's departure, "that I feel as if I were dreaming and that Don must soon come and wake me up."

"Strange that he should 'a' been allowed to go all the way to Europe, alone so – and he barely fifteen yet," remarked Mrs. Danby, who was ironing Jamie's Sunday frock at the time.

"Donald is nearly sixteen," said Dorry with dignity, "and he went on important business for Uncle. Didn't Ben go West when he was much younger than that?"

"Oh, yes, my dear, but then Ben is – different, you know. He's looked out for himself 'most ever since he was a baby. Now, Ellen Eliza," she exclaimed, suddenly changing her tone as the tender-hearted one came in sight, "what in the world are you goin' to do with that lame rabbit you put in the box there?"

"Cure it, Ma. That's what I'm going to do with it."

"Well, if anybody can, you can, I s'pose. But it's layin' so still I'm afraid you'll lose it."

"Charity says only hens lay, Ma," replied Ellen Eliza, suggestively, at the same time hurrying to the box in great solicitude.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby, laughing lightly. "Them children" (here the proud mother turned to Dorothy), "with their lessons and what not, are gettin' to be too much for me. I have to speak as ac'rate as a school-teacher to satisfy 'em. Only the other day, little Fandy took me by surprise. He's the brightest of the lot, you know. Well, I wanted to start the fire, and the matches had given clean out. 'Here's a pretty fix!' says I. 'A fire to light, and no matches!' 'I can help you, Ma,' says Fandy. 'Can you dear?' says I, pleased enough; 'have you got some matches?' 'No, Ma,' says the child. 'Well, how can you help me then?' I says; 'there isn't a spark or a live coal anywhere in the house. I can't light the fire without matches, that's certain.' 'Yes, you can light it without matches, Ma,' says he, in his 'cute, pos'tive way; 'yes, you can.' 'How can I?' says I, more to draw him out than with any hope o' gettin' help from him. 'Why,' says he, bowin' to me as grand as the best, and takin' somethin' out o' his little wescut pocket, 'you can use a match, Ma, and here's one; it's the only one I've got!' Now wasn't that a good catch, Dorothy, for a child o' his tender years?"

"Yes, indeed it was," assented Dorothy, heartily.

"Ma," began Ellen Eliza, who had been listening with much interest, "did – "

"Why, Ellen Eliza! Are you standing there yet? Now don't lay your wet apron down on your sister's poetry you forlorn, distres-sèd lookin' child! She's been writin' like wild this mornin', Mandy has, but I haven't had time enough to read it. It's a cryin' shame, Dorothy, her poetry isn't all printed in a book by this time. It would sell like hot cakes, I do believe, – and sell quicker, too, if folks knew she wasn't going to have much more time for writin'. She's going to be a teacher, Mandy is. Young Mr. Ricketts got her a situation in a 'cademy down to Trenton, where she's to study and teach and make herself useful till she perfects herself. 'Tisn't every girl gets a chance to be perfected so easy, either. Oh, Charity – there's so much on my mind! – I forgot to tell you that Ben found your 'rithmetic in the grass, 'way down past the melon-patch where baby Jamie must have left it. There, put up your sewing, Charity, and you and Dorothy take a run; you look jaded-like. Why, mercy on us!" continued the good woman, looking up at this moment and gently waving her scorching-hot iron in the air to cool it off a little, "you look flushed, Dorothy. You haven't gone and got malaria, have you?"

"Oh, no," said Dorry, laughing in spite of her sadness. "It is not malaria that troubles me: it's living for three whole weeks without seeing Donald."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby. "I don't wonder if it is, you poor child – only one brother so, and him a twin." Dorry laughed pleasantly again, and then, with a cheerful "good-by," walked slowly homeward.

The next morning, when she awoke, she felt so weary and sleepy that she sent a good-morning message to her uncle and told Lydia she would not get up till after breakfast-time. "Be sure," she said to Liddy, "to tell Uncle that I am not really ill, – only lazy and sleepy, – and by and by you may let Kassy bring a cup of very weak coffee."

Lydia, secretly distressed but outwardly cheerful, begged her dear young lady to take a nice long nap. Then lighting the fire, – for the morning was raw and chilly though it was May, – she bustled about the room till Dorry was very wide-awake indeed. Next, Uncle George came up to bid her good-morning, and make special inquiries, and when he went down reassured, Kassy came in with her breakfast. By this time Dorothy had given up all thought of sleep for the present.

"Why, Kassy!" she exclaimed in plaintive surprise, "you've brought enough to feed a regiment. I can't eat all that bread, if I am ill – "

"Oh, but I'm to make toast for you, here in your room, Miss," explained Kassy, who evidently had something on her mind. "Lydia, – I mean Mr. Reed, said so."

"How nice!" exclaimed Dorry, listlessly.

Kassy took her place by the open fire, and after hesitating a moment began to toast the bread, while Dorry lay looking at her, feeling neither ill nor well, and half inclined to cry from sheer loneliness. This was to be the twenty-third day without Donald.

"I wonder what that important business can be," she thought; "but, most likely, Uncle will tell me all about it before long."

Meanwhile, Kassy continued to toast bread. A formidable pile of browned slices already lay on the plate, and she was preparing, in absent-minded fashion, to attack another slice, when suddenly the long toasting-fork hung aimlessly from one hand, while the other began fumbling in her pocket. Finally, in a cautious, troubled way, she handed the young lady a letter.

"I – I should have given it to you before, Miss," she faltered, "but kept it because I thought – that – perhaps – I – "

But Dorry already had torn open the envelope, and was reading the contents.

Kassy, watching her, was frightened at seeing the poor girl's face flush painfully, then turn deadly pale.

"Not bad news, is it, Miss? Oh, Miss Dorry, maybe I've done wrong in handing it to you; but a gentleman gave me half a dollar, day before yesterday, Miss, to put it secretly into your hands, and he said it was something you'd rejoice to know about."

Dorry, now sitting up on the bed, hardly heard her. With trembling hands, she held the opened letter, and motioned toward the door.

"Go, call Mr. Reed! No, no – stay here – Oh, what shall I do? What ought I to do?" she thought to herself, and then added aloud, with decision: "Yes, go ask Mr. Reed to please come up. You need not return."

Hastily springing to the floor, Dorry thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, put on a long white woollen wrapper that made her look like a grown woman, and stood with the letter in her hand as her uncle entered.

She remained motionless as a statue while he hastily read it, her white face in strange contrast to the angry hue that overspread Mr. Reed's countenance.

"Horrible!" he exclaimed, as he reached the last word. "Where did this letter come from Dorothy? How did you get it?"

"Kassy brought it. A man gave her half a dollar – she thought it had good news in it. Oh, Uncle!" (seeing the wrath in Mr. Reed's face), "she ought not to have taken it, of course, but she doesn't know any better – and I didn't notice either, when I opened it, that it had no post-mark."

"Did you read it all?"

Dorothy nodded.

"Well, I must go. I'll attend to this letter. The scoundrel! You are not going to faint, my child?" putting his arm quickly around her.

"Oh, no, Uncle," she said, looking up at him with an effort. "But what does it mean? Who is this man?"

"I'll tell you later, Dorry. I must go now – "

"Uncle, you are so angry! Wait one moment. Let me go with you."

Her frightened look brought Mr. Reed to his senses. In a calmer voice he begged her to give herself no uneasiness, but to lie down again and rest. He would send Lydia up, for he must lose no time in attending to that letter. He was just going to open the door, when Josie Manning's pleasant voice was heard at the foot of the stair: "Is any one at home? May I come up?"

"Oh, no," shuddered Dorothy.

"Yes, yes," urged Mr. Reed. "Let your friend see you, my girl. Her cheerfulness will help you to forget this rascally, cruel letter. There, good-by for the present," and, kissing her, Mr. Reed left the room.

Josie's bright face soon appeared at the door.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "Are you rehearsing for a charade, Miss Reed? And who are you in your long white train – Lady Angelica, or Donna Isabella, or who?"

"I don't know who I am!" sobbed poor Dorothy, throwing herself upon the bed and hiding her face in the pillows.

"Why, what is the matter? Are you ill? Have you heard bad news? Oh, I forget," continued Josie, as Dorry made no reply; "what a goose I must be! Of course you are miserable without Don, you darling! But I've come to bring good news, my lady – to me, at least – so cheer up. Do you know something? Mamma and Papa are going to start for San Francisco on Wednesday. They gave me my choice – to go with them or to stay with you, and I decided to stay. So they and your uncle settled it late last night that I am to be here with you till they come back – two whole months, Dot! Isn't that nice?"

"Ever so nice!" said Dorry, without lifting her head. "I am really glad, Jo; but my head aches, and I feel dreadfully this morning."

"Have you had any breakfast?" asked the practical Josie, much puzzled.

"N-no," sobbed Dorry.

"Well, no wonder you feel badly. Look at this cold coffee, and that mountain of toast, and not a thing touched. I declare, if I don't go right down and tell Liddy. We'll get you up a good hot breakfast, and you can doze quietly till we come."

Dorry felt a gentle arm round her for an instant, and a warm cheek pressed to hers, and then she was alone – alone with her thoughts of that dreadful letter.

It was from Eben Slade, and it contained all that he had told Donald on that day at Vanbogen's, and a great deal more. He had kept quiet long enough, he added, and now he wished her to understand that, as her uncle, he had some claim upon her; that her real name was Delia Robertson; she was no more Dorothy Reed than he was; and that she must not tell a living soul a word about this letter, or it would make trouble. If she had any spirit or any sense of justice, he urged, she would manage for him to see her some day when Mr. Reed was out. Of course – (the letter went on to say) – Mr. Reed would object if he knew, for it was to his interest to claim her; but truth was truth, and George Reed was no relation to her whatever. The person she had been taught to call Aunt Kate was really her mother, and it was her mother's own brother, Eben, who was writing this letter. All he asked for was an interview. He had a great deal to say to her, and Mr. Reed was a tyrant who would keep her a prisoner if he could, so that her own Uncle Eben could not even see her. He had been unfortunate and lost all his money. If he was rich he would see that he and his dear niece Delia had their rights, in spite of the tyrant who held her in bondage. She must manage to see him, – (so ran the letter) – and she could put a letter for him, after dark that night, under the large stone by the walnut-tree behind the summer-house. He would come and see her at any time she mentioned. No girl of spirit would be held, for a single day, in such bondage, especially when sacred duties called her elsewhere. The writer concluded by calling her again his dear Delia, and signing himself her affectionate uncle, Eben Slade.

Early on that same evening, Sailor Jack, reaching the summer-house by a circuitous route, stealthily laid a dainty-looking note under the large stone by the walnut tree. He held his breath as he lingered a moment among the shadows. Ah, if he only could have his own way, what a chance this would be to leave that paltry thrashing at Vanbogen's far in the background! How he longed to get his hands on Eben Slade once more! But, no; he had received his instructions, and must obey. Besides, Slade was too wary a man to be caught this time. So poor Jack was forced to go back to the stables, and there bustle noisily about as though nothing unusual were expected.

But it was some satisfaction to follow Mr. Reed's further orders to keep a sharp lookout all that night, about the premises. Meantime Eben Slade, who like most men of his sort was a coward at heart, had hastily withdrawn to a safe distance, after finding what he sought under the walnut-tree. Soon he sat down in the woods that crossed his road, and there, by the light of a candle-end that he had with him, eagerly opened the dainty letter.

The man clutched the paper angrily as he read. It was not from the poor, frightened girl whose words he had hoped to see, but from Mr. Reed, – a plain, strong letter, that, while it increased Slade's wrath, and showed him the futility of pursuing his persecutions for the present, made him also savagely hopeful.

"Well," he muttered to himself, as he stole through the rain, along the dark road towards the shabby house which was to shelter him for the night, "I don't give her up yet by a good deal, and there's considerable worry ahead of George Reed still. Confound it! If I had that man's money and position I could work out the case to a certainty. But what can a fellow do without a dime or a friend? What if the boy has gone over the sea to find out for himself, he isn't likely to succeed after all these years; and if he does get any further particulars, why they're just as apt as not to be all in my favor. The girl is just as likely to be mine as theirs. Ten chances to one she's Kate's child, after all. Things will work right, yet. I'll bide my time."

CHAPTER XXX.
A TIME OF SUSPENSE

That same morning, after Josie had gone home to assist her mother in preparations for the trip to California, Dorothy, exhausted by the morning's emotions, fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did not waken till late in the afternoon. By the bed stood a little table, on which were two fine oranges, each on a Venetian glass plate, and surmounted by a card. On one was written: "Miss Dorothy Reed, with the high, respectful consideration of her sympathizing friend, Edward Tyler, who hopes she will soon be well;" and the other bore a limping verse in Josie's familiar handwriting:

 
"To this fair maid no quarter show,
Good Orange, sweet and yellow,
But let her eat you – in a certain way
That Dorothy and I both know —
That's a good fellow!"
 

Dorry appreciated both the notes and the oranges, and her spirits rose again as she heard Liddy softly singing in the next room. That evening, after she and her uncle had had a long talk together, she kissed him for good-night, and, though there were tears in her bright eyes, she looked a spirited little maiden who did not intend to give herself up to doubting and grieving, so long as "there was more than hope" that she was Dorothy.

Half an hour later, the young girl stole softly down to the deserted sitting-room, lit only by the glowing remains of a wood-fire, and taking an unlighted student's lamp from the centre-table, made her rapid way back to her pretty bedroom up stairs. Here, after putting on the soft Lady-Angelica wrapper, as Josie had called it, she sat for a long time in a low easy-chair, with her little red-slippered feet in a rug before the fire, thinking of all that the eventful day had brought her.

"There is more than hope," she mused, while her eyes were full of tears: "those were Uncle's very words – more than hope, that I am Dorothy Reed. But what if it really is not so; what if I am no relation to my – to the Reed family at all – no relation to Uncle George nor to Donald?" From weeping afresh at this thought, and feeling utterly lonely and wretched, she began to wonder how it would feel to be Delia. In that case, Aunt Kate would have been her mother. For an instant this was some consolation, but she soon realized that, while Aunt Kate was very dear to her fancy, she could not think of her as her mother; and then there was Uncle Robertson – no, she never could think of him as her father; and that dreadful, cruel Eben Slade, her uncle? Horrible! At this thought her soul turned with a great longing toward the unknown mother and father, who, to her childish mind, had appeared merely as stately personages, full of good qualities – Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed, honored by all who knew them, but very unreal and shadowy to her. Now, as she sat half-dreaming, half-thinking, their images grew distinct and loving; they seemed to reach out their arms tenderly to her, and the many good words about them that from time to time had fallen tamely upon her ears now gained life and force. She felt braver and better, clinging in imagination to them, and begging them to forgive her, their own girl Dorothy, for not truly knowing them before.

Meantime, the night outside had been growing colder and there were signs of a storm. A shutter in some other part of the building blew open violently, and the wind moaned through the pine-trees at the corner of the house. Then the sweet, warm visions that had comforted her faded from her mind and a dreadful loneliness came over her. A great longing for Donald filled her heart. She tried to pray, —

 
"No thought confessed, no wish expressed,
Only a sense of supplication."
 

Then her thoughts took shape, and she prayed for him, her brother, alone in a foreign land, and for Uncle, troubled and waiting, at home, and for herself, that she might be patient and good, and have strength to do what was right – even to go with Eben Slade to his distant home, if she were really his sister's child.

The storm became so dismal that Dorry poked the fire into a blaze, and lighted the student's lamp that she had placed on the table behind the arm-chair. Then she took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and an oval hand-glass from her dressing-table, and, looking hurriedly about her to be doubly sure that she was alone, she sat down resolutely, as if saying to herself: "Now, we'll see!"

Poor Dot! The photograph showed Donald, a handsome, manly boy, of whom any loving sister might be proud; but the firm, boyish face, with its square brows, roundish features, and shining black hair, certainly did not seem to be in the least like the picture that looked anxiously at her out of the hand-glass – a sweet face, with its oval outline, soft, dark eyes and long lashes, its low, arched eyebrows, its expressive mouth, and sunny, dark brown tresses.

Feature by feature, she scanned the two faces carefully, unconsciously drawing in her warm-tinted cheeks and pouting her lips, in her desire to resemble the photograph; but it was of no use. The two faces would not be alike; and yet, as she looked again, was there not something similar about the foreheads and the lower line of the faces? Hastily pushing back her hair with one hand, she saw with joy that, excepting the eyebrows, there really was a likeness: the line where the hair began was certainly almost the same on both faces.

"Dear, dear old Donald! Why, we are just alike there! I'll show Uncle to-morrow. It's wonderful."

Dorry laughed a happy little laugh, all by herself.

"Besides," she thought, as she laid the mirror away, "we are alike, in our natures, and in our ways and in loving each other, and I don't care a bit what anybody says to the contrary."

Thus braced, she drew her chair closer to the table and began a letter to Donald. A vague consciousness that by this time every one in the house must be in bed and asleep deepened her sense of being alone with Donald as she wrote. It seemed that he read every word as soon as it fell upon the paper, and that in the stillness of the room she almost could hear him breathe.

It was a long letter. At any other time, Dorry's hand would have wearied with the mere exercise of writing so many pages; but there was so much to tell that she took no thought of fatigue. It was enough that she was pouring out her heart to Donald.

"I know now," the letter went on to say, "why you have gone to Europe, and why I was not told the errand. Dear, dear Donald! And you knew it all before you went away; and that is why you sometimes seemed silent and troubled, and why you were so patient and good and gentle with me, even when I teased you and made sport of you! Uncle told me this afternoon all that he has to tell, and I have assured him that I am Dorry, and nobody else, and that he need not be bothered about it any more (though you know, Don, I cannot help feeling awfully. It's so dreadful to think of us all being so mixed up. The very idea of my not being Dorry makes me miserable. Yet, if I were anybody else, would I not be the first to know it? Yes, Donald, whether you find proof or not, you dear, good, noble old fellow, I am your sister– I feel it in my very bones – and you are my brother. Nobody on earth can make me believe you are not. That dreadful man said in his letter that it was to George Reed's interest that I should be known as Dorothy Reed. Oh, Don, as if it were not to my interest, too, and yours! But if it is not so, if it really is true that I am not Dorothy, but Delia, why, I must be Delia in earnest, and do my duty to my —her mother's brother. He writes that his wife is sick, and that he is miserable, with no comforts at home and no one to care whether he is good or bad. So, you see, I must go and leave you and Uncle, if I am Delia. And, Don, there's another thing, though it's the least part of it: if I am Delia, I am poor, and it is right that I should earn my living, though you and Uncle should both oppose it, for I am no relation to any one, – I mean any one here, – and it would not be honorable for me to stay here in luxury.

"I can see your eyes flash at this, dear brother, or perhaps you will say I am foolish to think of such things yet a while. So I am, may be, but I must talk to you of all that is in my thoughts. It is very lonely here to-night. The rain is pouring against the windows, and it seems like November; and, do you know, I dread to-morrow, for I am afraid I may show in some way to dear Uncle George that I am not absolutely certain he is any relation to me. I feel so strange! Even Jack and Liddy do not know who I really am. Wouldn't Josie and Ed be surprised if they knew about things? I wish they did. I wish every one did, for secrecy is odious.

"Donald, dear, this is an imbecile way of talking. I dare say I shall tear up my letter in the morning. No, I shall not. It belongs to you, for it is just what your loving old Dorry is thinking this night.

"Good-night, my brother. In my letter, sent last Saturday, I told you how delighted Uncle and I were with your descriptions of London and Liverpool.

"I show Uncle your letters to me, but he does not return the compliment; that is, he has read to me only parts of those you have written to him. May be he will let me read them through now, since I know 'the important business.' Keep up a good heart, Don, and do not mind my whining a little in this letter. Now that I am going to sign my name, I feel as if every doubt I have expressed is almost wicked. So, good-night again, dear Donald, and ever so much love from your own faithful sister,

Dorry.

"P. S. – Uncle said this afternoon, when I begged him to start with me right away to join you in Europe, that if it were not for some matters needing his presence here, we might go; but that he cannot possibly leave at present. Dear Uncle! I'll be glad when morning comes, so that I may put my arms around his neck and be his own cheerful Dorry again. Liddy does not know yet that I have heard anything. I forgot to say that Mr. and Mrs. Manning are going to California, and that Josie is to spend two months with me. Won't that be a comfort? How strange it will seem to have a secret from her! But Uncle says I must wait.