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 it ask of you such utter absurdities as you are asking of me. I think the moonlight has affected you. Let us go in, now; it is growing chill."
Dorothy had failed, and she was furious. But she controlled herself, determined not to show temper at Justin's attitude. She had amazed him, and she knew it, but it was the entering edge of a wedge which might be driven farther some other time. So she only said:
"Yes, let us go in. It is dignified and all that, but somehow, Justin, it frightens me. The shadows are so weird, and those ghostly white trees shiver in the wind like spectres of the departed Arnolds. Do you suppose they're wagging their branches at me because they don't like me?"
"Nonsense, Dorothy! You're enough to give a man the creeps. Come on into the house."
As the ladies took up their bedroom candles and went upstairs, leaving the men to spend a half-hour in the smoking-room, Dorothy called down from the upper landing, "Don't forget to put on the burglar-alarm, Justin. Somebody might come and carry me off."
It was characteristic of Arnold that he answered seriously, "I've never forgotten it yet, Dorothy," and ignored the latter part of her speech.
The burglar-alarm was rather a standard joke among guests at White Birches, but this had never interfered with Justin Arnold's systematic observance of the old custom.
Dorothy paused at Leila's room for a good-night gossip. She was still in a quiet mood, and Leila asked her frankly what was the matter.
"Nothing," said Dorothy, with a little sigh. "I'm going to try to give a successful imitation of the dignity of the Arnolds for the rest of my life. I must learn to behave like an Arnold if I'm going to be one."
"Perhaps," said Leila daringly, "you'd rather see than be one!"
"No, not that," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Justin isn't very much to see, you know."
"I think he's a very handsome man."
"Oh, handsome nothing! He has a face like a hawk, a disposition like an iceberg, and not a bit of temper. I wish he had a temper!"
"He'll probably develop one after he marries you."
"It won't be my fault if he doesn't. But he is an old duck, and I'm terribly fond of him. Now let's change the subject. How many letters have you had from Mr. Gale?"
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Leila, blushing. "He only went away this noon. He's hardly in Philadelphia yet."
"Oh, yes, he is. He reached there before six o'clock, and I've no doubt he's spent the whole evening writing letters to you and tearing them up, in a vain endeavor to strike just the right note of friendliness."
"Dorothy, you're a goose, and I wish you'd go on to bed."
"I am going, dearie, because I know you want to write to Emory Gale!"
Dodging the little white pillow that Leila threw at her, Dorothy flew out into the hall and made for her own room.
As she turned a corner of the dimly lit corridor, she felt herself suddenly grasped by a pair of strong arms and drawn quickly between some heavy draped curtains, and out on to a tiny balcony.
"'Sh!" whispered Ernest Chapin's voice, close to her ear. "I've kidnapped you! You said some one