checked an impulse to dance downstairs, and walked down slowly, with her hands hanging crossed in front of her, and, as she had fully expected, she met Arnold in the hall.
"Good heavens, Dorothy! what have you been doing to yourself?"
"Don't you like me?" An angelic smile was on the face upturned to his, and the corners of the dimpled mouth drooped in saintly fashion.
"Why, I don't know whether I do or not. What's it for? I never know what you're up to."
"Oh, Justin, that's the trouble! you never know anything! Why don't you have any perception or understanding, or inter—what do you call it interospection?"
"Interospection! There's no such word."
"Yes, there is; I just made it myself. It's a lovely word and it means if you love a little girl, you ought to understand what she means, even when she doesn't mean anything."
"Dorothy," and Arnold looked at her, not entirely with approbation. "I do believe there's nothing to you but frivolity!"
Dorothy pouted. "You wouldn't say that if you loved me."
"Of course I love you, but I'm not of a demonstrative sort, so you needn't expect a foolish show of affection."
"I just love a show of foolish affection," murmured Dorothy, but Arnold went on, unheeding.
"And I'm eighteen years older than you are, so you can't expect me to imitate your childish ways."
"Oh, do imitate them, Justin, you'd look so funny! By the way, Justin, did you ever love anyone else before you loved me?"
"Don't ask foolish questions, Dorothy."
"Then give me a sensible answer."
"Very well, I will. I see no reason for not telling you that I did love somebody else, years ago; but she,—she didn't love me."
"I don't blame her much," said Dorothy, but she said it half under her breath, and Arnold, whose thoughts had flown backward, didn't hear her.
And then the others joined them, and a few guests came, and the big hall became a scene of merry laughter and gay chatter. The hall was circular, and rooms rayed out from it in various directions. This plan allowed of many queer-shaped little rooms or alcoves between the larger apartments, and as, during the various improvement periods, some floors or ceilings had been raised and others lowered, the whole house was a delightful jumble of intricate and uncertain wanderings. Dorothy had discovered and appropriated for her own many of these "flirting corners" as she called them, but to-night she would have none of them. She stood demurely by Arnold's side until dinner was announced, and then walked with him straight to the dining-room, though usually they had to institute a search for her at meal times.
During dinner and indeed all the evening, she kept up her role of demure quietness, and her mother looked at her approvingly, for she thought her admonitions had been heeded.
Later in the evening, and after the dinner guests had gone, Arnold took Dorothy out for a little stroll around the grounds. The moonlight made the white birch trees even more silvery of bark, and turned their foliage to black velvet. Deep down in the ravines could be seen silver lights on the black water, and the autumn wind murmuring in the trees gave an added touch of solemn grandeur.
"It is a beautiful place," said Dorothy, a little thrilled as she stood on the South Terrace and looked down into the dark tangles of the woodland; "but not—not very cheerful, is it, Justin?"
"It is a magnificent place, Dorothy, but I fear you're incapable of appreciating it. You would probably prefer Italian formal gardens and great sweeps of sunny lawn, with gay-colored flower-beds here and there."
"Well, yes," said Dorothy; "I think that would be pretty. But it wouldn't fit White Birches, would it, Justin?"
"I should say not! I'm glad you can at least realize that. Why, Dorothy, this is perhaps the finest old place in this country. That stone wall is unique, and as for that great arched gateway, I doubt if many English parks can match it. We Arnolds appreciate the grandeur and dignity of our ancestral home, and I hope and trust, Dorothy, that you, too, will learn to do so."
"Oh, Justin, you give me so much to learn! How can one little head hold it all?"
"It doesn't seem much, dear, to expect you to love and reverence this old place, that means so much to me."
"But, Just, it means such a lot to you, because you were born here and have always lived here. Now, I wasn't, and so you see, it's very different. My marrying you won't make me a born Arnold, you know."
"You're a born darling!" exclaimed Arnold, looking at her, as the moonlight came through the leaves and illumined her exquisite face.
"Do you love me, really?" and Dorothy's voice was wistful and sweet.
"More than life itself! More than I ought to, a great deal!"
These phrases didn't at all please Miss Duncan's fastidious taste in such matters. The first was hackneyed and meaningless, and the second was grudging and not nice in its implication. However, she had "an ax to grind," and she proposed to utilize the occasion.
"How dear you are," and her little fingers crept into his own. "I'm afraid I'm not good enough for you, Justin." A soft little sigh accompanied this mendacious speech.
"Dorothy, my angel! You're too good for me! I'm not sure I ought to link your beautiful young life to mine. But I will try to make you happy, dearest."
"Do you really desire my happiness?" Dorothy was in his arms now, her soft cheek against his, and her sweet voice very gentle and tender.
"Yes; you shall have anything you want,—anything!"
"I don't want much, Just. Only I do want you to promise that we needn't stay here at White Birches all the year round."
"Not stay here! Where would you stay?"
"Why, don't you think it would be nice to go to the mountains and seashore in the summer time?"
"But this is a perfect summer home, Dorothy."
"Well, just for part of the time, you know. And then, in winter, it is so bleak and drear here, I thought we could take a house in the city for the coldest months."
"Why, darling, it is glorious up here in winter! Such air, such bright crisp days, you wouldn't want to spend them in a smoky city!"
"Oh, the city isn't smoky, Justin. And then, I thought,—I hoped—you'd take me abroad every spring."
"Every spring! Dear, you're crazy! I thought, myself, we'd go abroad some time, but I'm very sure once will be enough for me!"
"Well, it won't for me; and you said I should have whatever I wanted!"
"Yes, in reason, dearest. But your talk is out of all reason!"
"And isn't your love for me out of all reason, too?" Dorothy's soft arms stole round his neck, and her lips met his.
"No!" and he unclasped her hands and put her a little away from him. "No; it is a true, strong, honest love, but it isn't unreasonable, nor does
