“Only one pigeon pie in the house, sir,” said he, trying to look very solemn, “and if the young lady will be pleased to wait, I’ll bring it to her in a few minutes.  No such dish on any of the other bills of fare.  A rarity for this special day, sir.  Anything else, miss, while you wait?”

Mr. Parlin looked rather surprised.  There had been no good reason given for not bringing the pie at once; however, he merely asked Dotty to choose again; and this time she chose “tomato steak,” at a venture.

There were two gentlemen at the opposite side of the table, and one of them watched Dotty with interest.

“Her mother has taken great pains with her,” he thought; “she handles her knife and fork very well.  Where have I seen that child before?”

While he was still calling to mind the faces of various little girls of his acquaintance, and trying to remember which face belonged to Dotty, the waiter arrived with the “pigeon pie postponed.”  He had chosen the time when most of the people had finished their first course, and the clinking of dishes was not quite so hurried as it had been a little while before.  The table at which Mr. Parlin sat was nearly in the centre of the room.  As the waiter approached with the pie, the same amused look passed over his face once more.

He set the dish upon the table near Mr. Parlin, who proceeded to cut a piece for Miss Dimple.  As the knife went into the pie, the crust seemed to move; and lo, “when the pie was opened,” out flew a pigeon alive and well!

The bird at first hopped about the table in a frightened way, a little blind and dizzy from being shut up in such a dark prison; but a few breaths of fresh air revived him, and he flew merrily around the room, to the surprise and amusement of the guests.  It was a minute or two before any of them understood what it meant.  Then they began to laugh and say they knew why the pie was “postponed:”  it was because the pigeon was not willing to be eaten alive.

It passed as a capital joke; but I doubt if Dotty Dimple appreciated it.  She looked at the hollow crust, and then at the purple-crested dove, and thought a hotel dinner was even more peculiar than she had supposed.  Did they have “live pies” every day?  How did they bake them without even scorching the pigeons?  But she busied herself with her nuts and raisins, and asked no questions.

At four o’clock she went with, her father to see the Public Gardens and other places of interest, and to buy a pair of new gloves.  On the Common they met one of the gentlemen who had sat opposite them at dinner.  He bowed as they were passing, and said, with a smile,—­

“Can this be my little friend, Miss Prudy Parlin?”

“It is her younger sister, Alice,” replied her father.

“And I am Major Benjamin Lazelle, of St. Louis,” said the gentleman.