Doris had taken a sudden and unaccountable predilection for morning strolls. The family did not understand it, for she had always been partial to her final morning nap. She did not neglect her work, no indeed, she was getting up early, very ridiculously early—at five o'clock!—and then going around for a jaunt all by herself wherever fancy prompted.

To herself Doris admitted candidly that she wanted to see that awfully aggravating Curious Cat, as she called him to herself, though she reproved the twins very seriously for the disrespectfulness of it. But she did not see him. She walked east, west, north and south, but he remained hidden from view.

She did not forget that twice he had appeared to the girls in the neighborhood of the erstwhile Haunted House. But it was too far—she could not walk there, however much she wished to do so. Then came a sudden idea. She would take a morning drive, instead of a stroll—and she might, if necessary, walk along the creek herself in search of wild flowers— Of course, it was too late for wild flowers, far too late—but anyhow one never could tell what one might find.

So the very next morning, dimply with the delight of it, she took the car and drove gleefully out to the lovely hickory grove, and ran the car deliberately up beside the road, and waited. No Mr. Wizard gloomed on the horizon. Not even a Corduroy Crab came crashing through the fallen leaves which blanketed the ground around her. So she got out of the car, climbed through the fence, and sauntered comfortably along by the creek, under the big bare trees. Still no angry keeper dashed out upon her. She took small pebbles and tossed them into the trees to see the squirrels go scampering—nobody minded in the least. It was very annoying—like everything else connected with that Curious Cat.

She was very near the Haunted House now, so near she could not go any farther. Even a wilful and deliberate trespasser could not walk right into the very doors of an irate proprietor.

She was quite vexed. Why did he claim to be a wizard, and boast of fairy powers, if he could not see there was a damsel out in search of him? She turned and walked briskly back down the creek toward the road. Putting her hands on the top rail of the low fence, she vaulted lightly over, and cried out in surprise and fear.—The car was gone.

She had left it there, not fifteen minutes ago. She could not be dreaming—there were the broad smooth tracks in the dust. Some one had stolen the dear, darling little car.

"Now every one will say I should have chosen the cow," she thought bitterly.

Doris was several miles from home, and it was breakfast time. They would know that she was out for her silly morning walk—and when father found the car gone it would be apparent she had gone for a drive instead. Oh, dear—it was a long way, and very hot, and dusty—and she was so unhappy. And it was only natural to blame it all on that perfectly disgusting Curious Cat, who should have been there, and was not.

Because she was angry, the first mile passed quickly. But neither anger nor grief shortened the second mile, nor the third, nor the fourth. Then she got a ride with a friendly farmer, who openly marveled at her being in the country so early in the morning. But Doris was not communicative. They were preachers, of course, but if they wanted to be in the country, they could be—and the whole neighborhood did not need to know the wherefore. At eight o'clock she marched grimly into the manse, and found the family at breakfast.

"Oh, you runaway," laughed Rosalie. "I had a terrible time getting breakfast. Aren't you a good housekeeper—not a bit of flour in the house and the cream sour."

"Give me coffee," said Doris, sitting down wearily and resting her elbows on the table. "Black coffee, strong coffee, lots of it, no sugar and no cream."

"Why, you poor dear, you are tired," said Rosalie in her softest, most gurgly voice. "Let me make some fresh toast."

"No toast—just coffee—but lots of it."

"I always said it was silly, walking around without breakfast. I told you that before. You look positively yellow."

"Dust."

"At the least, you should choose a cool and shady street," said her father. "You look jaded, dear. I am afraid it is too much for you."

"I am jaded. Father, my poor dear father, be prepared for a bitter blow."

"What is it?"

"The car, the beautiful red car that dear Mr. Davison left you, is stolen."

"Stolen!"

"The car?"

"Oh, Doris, I'll bet you had a wreck."

"What happened?"

"I went for a drive instead of a walk, and I left the car just to walk through the woods a little—and when I came back it was gone."

"Gone!"

"Oh, Doris! You would not let us ride for three weeks, and now it is gone and we can never ride again—the dear darling precious little car."

"Never mind, girls, if it is gone, no use to worry."

"Every one said we were foolish not to take the cow in the first place."

"Oh, Rosalie, please don't throw that up to me," said Doris tearfully. "I loved it too much, I was just crazy about it, I thought of it day and night. Maybe it is a punishment, I suppose it is. And it is all my fault, for I did adore it."

"Oh, no, Doris. I am sure that had nothing to do with it. You know we preachers do not have many of these physical, sensational joys—and the car has been an ecstasy for every one of us. I am sure an understanding Providence has rejoiced in our pleasure, and not begrudged us a second of it."

"Why should our car be stolen?" wailed Zee. "Why couldn't it have been a banker's, who could buy another? Or a bad man's, who did not deserve one anyhow? Or a sick man's, who couldn't enjoy it? Why is it always we preachers who get the raw deal?"

"Oh, Zee!"

"I had several perfectly lovely things I wanted to do with the car," said Rosalie regretfully. "I am sorry I put them off from day to day."

Treasure slipped away from the table and out of the room. She had uttered no protest. She had made no complaint. But she crept sadly out to the garage—she wanted to sit down in the dust where the dear red car had been of yore, and weep over the spot, as at the passing of a dear companion.

She opened the door with hands that trembled—and stopped aghast. Her lips parted several times, and she uttered a curious sputtering gasp. The red car was right there where it belonged—it was not stolen at all. Doris was out of her mind!

She walked slowly, dimly back to the manse, her eyes swimming. Poor Doris—she had walked too far and too fast. Treasure entered the dining-room, pale, with eyes still clouded.

"I am so sorry," Doris was saying. "I know you are all very angry at me, and I do not blame you."

"Where did you leave the car?"

Doris blushed. She could not admit to keen-witted Zee that she had deliberately gone to their Haunted House in the hickory grove.

"Oh, out in the country about six miles—along the Emery Road."

Treasure threw out both hands, and her lips parted spasmodically.

"She is having a nightmare," said Zee, staring at her sister.

"Is the garage gone, too?" demanded Rosalie.

Treasure's lips parted again, but no sound came.

"Shake her, father. She is having a spell or something."

"Out of her mind," said Treasure, at last, with a violent effort.

The family gazed upon her, speechless.

"Car's in the garage," she stammered. "Isn't gone—at all."

With one accord they arose from their chairs and made a united dash on the garage. It was quite true, the car was there, shiny and serene, in its accustomed place. They gazed on it silently as Treasure had done, and then they turned to Doris, wide-eyed and horrified.

"You're off," said Zee succinctly.

"It was a dream, dearest," said Rosalie, slipping a tender arm around her sister's shoulders. "You haven't been well lately."

"Never mind, Doris. It must have been a dream."

"It was not a dream. I was away out in the country by the hickory grove of the twins' Haunted House—I left the car and walked along the creek—"

"Did you see the Corduroy Crab?" asked Treasure eagerly.

"Maybe he lammed her on the head," said Zee, touching her own curly brow suggestively.

"I did not see any one. And I went right back to the road— You know I couldn't go way out there on foot, father."

"You must have been walking in your sleep, dear," said Rosalie. "Maybe you only dreamed you were there. You are home now, anyhow, and the car is here, and everything is all right."

"Rosalie, do you think I am out of my head?" demanded Doris sharply.

"I think it was a bad dream, dearest."

"Come on back to the house," said their father pleasantly. "Be glad the car is here."

"I'll bet the old place is haunted, and they've put a spell on Doris. Maybe it was the Curious Cat—he says he can put charms," suggested Zee.

Doris smiled at that. As far as she could see, it was the only explanation possible—the Curious Cat had certainly put his charm upon her.

She was very cross at Rosalie—for Rosalie insisted that Doris lie down, and she herself stayed at home from school to do the work, and father sat by the cot all morning—it was perfectly infuriating. They looked at her with tender solicitude, and Rosalie made more hot coffee for her, and bathed her brow every few minutes, and Doris fumed impotently. For she was helpless. Father had said, "I think you'd better, dearest," and when father said things in that quiet settled voice even the General refrained from argument.

But to lie there like an invalid—when she had only been on the trail of mystery and— She had found mystery, though! She could swear by her life's blood that she had driven the car out to the hickory grove. And she had certainly walked home. But how in the world came the car safely back in the manse garage? It was more than Doris could understand.

When the girls came home to lunch they kissed Doris tenderly and spoke to her in a softly soothing way that made her long to shake them. When they were eating their lunch Zee was called to the telephone, and she crossed the room on tiptoes, and whispered "Yes," very softly, and then she gave a little scream.

"You—did?—Mercy! Well, thank goodness! Oh, you horrible thing, won't Doris rage?—Why, no, Mr. Curious Cat, your charm did not work worth a cent. It was not Treasure and I at all. It was Doris, and the poor thing had to walk all the way home, and she is in bed, and we thought she was out of her mind, and she said the car was stolen." She hung up the receiver abruptly, and did not hear the sharp exclamations at the other end of the wire.

Doris rose from the cot, and the family rushed from the table.

"Tell it, and talk fast," commanded the General.

Zee flung herself into a big chair and rocked and screamed with laughter. "Oh, Treasure, we are even with the Curious Cat at last." Then wiping her eyes, and between bursts of laughter, she explained. "He began talking in that sarcastic smart little way he has, and he said, 'Say, Miss Zee, the next time I find that red car of yours stuck in front of my house I am going to take it as a gift from Heaven, and keep it. But this time, just to be friendly and keep you out of a scrape, I drove it home for you and left it in your garage. I suppose you were playing hooky, and got stuck. Did I save you? I shall never do it again.'"

How they all laughed, even Doris, and how heartily she ate of the luncheon Rosalie had prepared, and what a splendid joke it was— Only Doris did wish she had just remained in the car instead of strolling up the creek—he was such a funny Curious Cat—maybe—Oh, then he did own the Haunted House, after all!

"He was teasing you girls again," she cried. "The Crab and the Courteous Coon must be his servants, for he said you left the car in front of his house."

Then the girls were freshly indignant—pretending he was getting tea from the Crab, when it was his own tea, and he could give it away if he wished! But it was funny anyhow, and now he was a more Curious Cat than ever.

That afternoon, when the girls had gone to school, deciding that Doris could safely be left alone now—and when father had gone calling, Doris hurried up-stairs and arranged her hair in most enticing little curls around her forehead, and put on her very daintiest, bluest, floweriest dress—because he was in honor bound to call her up and make apology. Oh, of course, he would not see the enticing curls, and the dainty blue flowery dress—but it was a great moral support to know that she looked irreproachable, even when none was there to see. And she wanted to be very clever and interesting over the telephone—because—he really had done a very disagreeable thing, and she wanted to make him sorry.

And then he did not telephone at all. He came himself—in person—and Doris knew some kindly angel had been guiding her actions that day. When she heard the ring she went to the door so lightly, so unconcernedly, sure it was something trivial and some one unimportant. And there he stood, smiling at her, regret in his eyes.

"I brought my apology with me. May I come in and deliver it?"

"Yes, please do. I know where you live, and that is a beginning, isn't it?"

"How did you learn that?"

"You said the car was in front of your house. And it was the Haunted House," she cried gleefully.

"Did you really have to walk home?"

"Four miles and a half." Somehow it did not seem half so long and weary a way now as it had been seeming all the day. "And I was sure the car was stolen. And when we found it in the garage they thought I was ill and put me to bed, and Rosalie stayed home from school to nurse me."

"I am sorry. It was terribly stupid of me. I was sure the girls were in another scrape, and when the car stuck on them had got a ride back to school. It was a terrible blunder."

"I am glad of it now, because it brought you to visit me."

And he seemed in not the least bit of hurry, but settled back and talked, and he had a wonderful basket of fruit, apples and grapes and golden pears, and he hoped Doris would accept them in token of forgiveness.

"But when you tell your father, will he ask who brought them?"

"I shall just say the Curious Cat brought them to apologize—and father is not a bit inquisitive. He will think it is quite all right—he has the dearest way of thinking things are quite all right."

Doris did long to know how old he was—of course she could not ask—he surely was not nearly so old as father, yet he did not look young. The college men of Rosalie's favor looked like children beside him. And he talked like a man who knew things. But he could not be old—he laughed so readily, and teased so constantly, and his eyes were so friendly and warm. Father was forty-three, and forty-three is very terribly old when one is twenty.

They had tea together—on the Endeavor china. He was much more fun than the bishop. And in spite of the very-close-to-gray-hairs at his temples, he had a dear boyish way of settling back in a chair and getting himself comfortable and happy. And when you see another thoroughly comfortable and happy right at your side, you are bound to feel the same way yourself. And Doris did.

After she had watched his departure from the shelter of the front window, she came back into the room, and there on the card tray—how in the world it got there she could not imagine—but she knew instantly it was his card—and she pounced upon it eagerly.

"Mr. Daniel Amberton MacCammon."

After all, the name meant nothing. And there was so much she wished to know. His age, and who he was, and why he came there, and what in the world he was doing in the Haunted House, and—oh, a thousand things.

But Doris looked at the card in a friendly companionable way, and said, in her softest and chummiest voice:

"Honestly, I like you."