“That’s been two months ago.  We didn’t get back from Florida until February, and in March I was taken sick, and then we went to Lakewood, and now it’s May.  Mother can’t understand how I got sick.  She says she tries so hard to keep us from diseases and they come anyhow.  I wish I didn’t have to be educated and find out things—­mother knows a lot; but it makes her so nervous.  I’d rather be sick sometimes than afraid of being all the time.  This certainly is poor candy.  I promised mother I wouldn’t eat a thing Caddie gave me if she’d let me come to see you; but I don’t think she’d mind if I took home some of those little cakes Caddie makes with almonds in them.  Do you suppose she has any?”

“I couldn’t guess.  I’ll ring and find out.”

“I’ll ask her.”  Dorothea slipped from her uncle’s lap.  “I’ll be back in a minute,” and before Laine could press the button which would bring Moses she had disappeared.  Five minutes later she was back, in her hands a good-sized paper box, tied clumsily with red string, and as she put it on the table she patted it with satisfaction.

“That’s for Channing,” she said, half leaning against the table and drumming on it with the tips of her fingers.  “Caddie didn’t have any cakes.  She says you used to like sweet things, and it was once a pleasure to cook for you; but if you enjoy anything you eat now you never confess it to her.  She says you eat, but you don’t know the name of what you’re eating, and one thing is the same as another.  I think her feelings are getting hurt, Uncle Winthrop.”

“Are they?  I’m sorry.  Caddie is a spoiled creature.  I long ago exhausted the English language in commendation of her efforts.  Nothing is so wearing on one as continual demand for praise, and Caddie’s capacity is exhaustless.  I’m sorry she didn’t have the little cakes.”

“She’s going to make some to-morrow and send them to me.  It’s pop-corn in this box.”  Dorothea held up the latter and shook it.  “Moses brought it from Virginia.  They are the cunningest little ears you’ve ever saw.  Wasn’t it nice of Moses to think about us and bring it?  Of course, he didn’t know we would be away so long and that I was going to be sick and he wouldn’t see me until spring; but it’s a thing that keeps, and the drier it is the prettier it pops, he says.  What is that picture over there, Uncle Winthrop?  It is very ugly.”

Laine glanced at the picture to which Dorothea pointed.  “That is a Jan Steen—­’The Village Fair.’  Sorry you don’t like it.  You think that Botticelli is ugly also.  A little later in life it may meet with your approval.  The original is priceless.”