“Coming, Dorrie!” he called out, as the girl made a movement to step over the low sill into the room; “no, there is nothing the matter—­I came to ask Miss Minturn for the Flower Carnival picture, to have it copied for you.”

“How nice of you, Uncle Phillip!  You are always so thoughtful for me!” said unsuspicious Dorothy.

The man’s laugh rang out full and clear, but with a note of genuine mirth in it that made Katherine’s cheeks tingle afresh, for it told her that his main object in seeking her had not been to get the picture.

“Oh! if that child would but vanish!” he thought, with an adoring look at the pretty, drooping figure in its dainty robe of pale yellow; but little Miss Marplot evidently had no such intention, and he reluctantly turned away to save Katherine further embarrassment.

“Good-by, Miss-Katherine; we will be with you again this afternoon,” he said, with a thrill in his voice as it lingered over the name; then he stepped through the low window, slipped his arm around unconscious Dorrie and led her away to the carriage.

The reunion of the afternoon was a most delightful occasion.  Mr. Minturn had chartered a yacht to take the whole party out for a few hours’ sail, and, the day being perfect, the sea in its bluest attire and quietest mood, there was nothing to mar their enjoyment, and the experience proved ideal for everyone.

They returned just at sunset, to find numerous daintily laid tables awaiting them on one of the broad verandas and groaning beneath an abundance of the many luxuries that had been provided to tempt and regale; while spotlessly attired maids and white-jacketed men were in attendance to serve the hungry excursionists.  As twilight dropped down o’er land and sea, as the numerous lanterns were lighted and flung their soft radiance and vivid spots of color upon the scene, while a fine orchestra discoursed melodiously from some green-embowered nook, the place seemed like an enchanted realm where one might almost expect to discern, flitting among the playful shadows, those weird forms that people the elf land of childhood’s fancy—­

    “Fairies, black, gray, green and white,
     Those moonshine revelers and shades of night.”

And thus the evening was spent in a delightfully informal manner, each and all appearing to feel as if they were members of one happy family, as, indeed, they were, in Truth and Love.

But the final farewells had to be said at length, for railway time-tables are absolute, and the last train for Boston would leave at ten o’clock.

At half-past nine the carriages were at the door and fifteen minutes later all were gone, excepting the Seabrooks, who lingered for a few last words with the family, and to take leave of Miss Reynolds, who would go home on the morrow.

They were all standing together in the brilliantly lighted reception hall, Dorothy with one arm linked within her father’s, the other encircling Katherine’s waist.