That picnic-supper! The fun of it must be imagined, not described. Sufficient to say that it was the merriest meal yet served in that great mansion; that all, including Mrs. Calvert, brought to it appetites which did not hesitate at “failures,” and found even Helena’s angel cake palatable, though Herbert did remark to his next neighbor:

“If they’d had that kind of leathery stuff instead of canvas to cover that circus tent it would never have broken through, never in the world!”

Not the least delighted of that company were the servants, who returned late from their outing, and had had to walk up the mountain from the Landing; they having lingered in the hill-city till the last possible train, which there were no local stages to meet.

“And to think that our Miss Dorothy had the kindness to get supper for us, too! Sure, she’s the bonniest, dearest lass ever lived out of old Ireland. Hungry, say you? Sure I could have et the two shoes off my feet, I was that starved! And to think of her and them others just waitin’ on us same’s if we was the family! Bless her! And now I’m that filled I feel at peace with all the world and patience enough to chase them naughty spalpeens to their bed! See at ’em! As wide awake now as the morn and it past nine of the night!” cried Norah, coming into the room where the twins were having a delightful battle with the best sofa cushions; Mrs. Calvert looking on with much amusement and as yet not informed who they were and why so at home at Deerhurst.

The chatter of tongues halted a little when, as the clock struck the half-hour, Mr. Seth came in. He looked very weary, but infinitely relieved at the unexpected return of the mistress of the house, and his greeting was most cordial. Indeed, there was something about it which suggested to the young guests that their elders might wish to be alone; so, one after another, they bade Mrs. Betty good-night and disappeared.

Dorothy, also, was for slipping quietly away, but Aunt Betty bade her remain; saying gently:

“We won’t sleep, my child, till we have cleared away all the clouds between us. As for you, Cousin Seth, what has so wearied you? Something more than chaperoning a lot of young folks to a circus, I fancy.”

“You’re right. The afternoon performance was a pleasure; the ride home a trial.”

“With whom did you ride?”

“Oliver Sands.”

“Indeed? How came——”

“It’s a long story, Cousin Betty. Wouldn’t we better wait till morning?”

“Don’t you know how much curiosity I have? Do you want to keep me awake all night?” demanded the lady. But she believed that her old friend had some deep perplexity on his mind and that it would be a comfort to him to share it with her. “Is it something Dorothy may hear?”

“Certainly, if you wish. Already she knows part. Has she told you how the twins came here?”

“Somebody told, I forget who. All of the young folks talked at once, but I learned that they had been dropped on our premises, like a couple of kittens somebody wished to lose.”

“Exactly; and though he did not personally ‘drop’ them, the man who most heartily wishes to lose them is miller Oliver Sands. They are his most unwelcome grandchildren.”

“Why, Cousin Seth!” “Why, Master!” cried the hearers, amazed.

“True. Their mother was Rose Sands, whom her father always believed—or said—was ruined by the foolish name her mother gave her. His sons were like himself and are, I believe, good men enough, though tainted with their father’s hardness.”

“Hardness. That suave old Quaker! But you’re right, and I never liked him.”

“Nor I, I’m sorry to say, but I don’t wish to let that fact stand in the way of fair judgment. The man is in trouble, deep trouble. I’m not the only one who has noticed it. His behavior for awhile back has been most peculiar. He neglects his business, leaves the fruit in his vineyards and orchards to go to waste, and to his workmen’s question: ‘What shall we do next,’ returns no answer. He has taken to roaming about the country, calling at every house and inspecting each one and its surroundings as if he were looking for something he can’t find. His face has lost its perpetual smile—or smirk—and betrays the fact that he is an old man and a most unhappy one.”

“Huh! I’ve no great sympathy for Oliver Sands. He has wronged too many people,” said Mrs. Calvert, coldly. “But if those children are his grandchildren, what are they doing here?”

“I’m coming to that. His daughter, Rose, ‘married out of meeting,’ and against her father’s will. He turned her out of doors, forbade her mother ever to see or speak to her again, and though—being a Friend—he took no oath, his resolution to cast her off was equivalent to one. That part of my tale is common neighborhood gossip.”

“I never heard it,” said Mrs. Betty.

“No; such would scarcely be retailed to you. Well, Rose took refuge with her husband’s people, and all misfortune followed her flight from her father’s house. Her mother-in-law, her consumptive husband, and herself are dead; she passing away as the twins came into the world. The father-in-law, who was only a country-cobbler, but a profoundly religious man, became half-crazed by his troubles, and though I believe he honestly did his best by the babies left on his hands, they must have suffered much. They have never been so happy as now and I hope——”

“Please, Mr. Seth, let me tell! Aunt Betty, if you’ll let me, I want to adopt Sapphira!”

“Adopt—Sapphira! You? A child yourself?”

“Yes, please. I’ll go without everything myself and I’d work, if I could, to earn money to do it. Molly is going to adopt Ananias. It will be lovely to have some object in life, and some the Seniors at the Rhinelander adopted some Chinese babies. True. They pay money each month, part of their allowance, to do it; so we thought——”

But Aunt Betty was leaning back in her chair and laughing in a most disconcerting manner. It’s not easy to be enthusiastic on a subject that is ridiculed and Dorothy said no more. But if she were hurt by having her unselfish project thus lightly treated, she was made instantly glad by the tender way her guardian drew her close, and the gentle pat of the soft old hand on her own cheek.

“Oh! you child, you children! And I made the mistake of thinking you were as wise as a grown-up! We’ll attend to the ‘adoption’ case, by and by. Let Cousin Seth say his say now.”

“Well, finally, the old man, Hiram Bowen, forsook his old home, sold his few belongings and came here to our mountain. He must have had some sense left, and realized that he was not long for this world, because though until lately he has been unforgiving to Oliver Sands for the treatment of Rose, he now sought to interest her father on the little ones’ behalf. I’ve learned he made frequent visits to Heartsease, the Sands’ farm, but only once saw its owner. But he often saw Dorcas, the wife, and found her powerless to help him; besides, he did not mend matters, even with her, by explaining that he had named the twins as he had—‘after her husband, and herself!’ He told her that she and Oliver were living liars, because the Scripture commanded Christians to look after their own households and they did not do so.”

“But how could her heart, the heart of any woman, remain hard against the sight of her orphan grandchildren?” demanded Mrs. Calvert, impatiently. “I’ve met that Dorcas Sands on the road, going to meeting with the miller, and she looked the very soul of meekness and gentleness.”

“So, I believe she is; but she never saw the children. I told you he was crazed, partially; and despite the fact that he felt their mother’s family should care for the orphans he did not want to give them up, permanently. He felt that in doing so he would be consigning them to a life of deceit and unscrupulousness.”

“How strange! And, Seth, how strange that you should know all this. It’s not many days since that old man ‘passed them on’ to us. You must have been busy gathering news,” commented Mrs. Betty.

“I have; but the most of it I learned this afternoon, when I was taking the fanatic to the Hospital. Dolly, you tell her about his harangue in the tent and what the twins did there. It will give a diversion to my thoughts, for it was funny!”

So Dolly told and they all laughed over the recital, and in the laughter both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy lost the last bit of constraint that had remained in their manner whenever either chanced to remember the missing one hundred dollars and the sharpness of the telegram.

Mrs. Calvert resumed:

“You say, taking him to the Hospital. Have you done that, then? And how came you with Oliver Sands? The last man in the world to be drawn to Newburgh to see a circus.”

“Not the circus, of course, but the county fair. He got up enough interest in ordinary affairs to drive to the fair grounds to see his cattle safely housed. He will have, I presume, the finest exhibit of Holstein-Friesians on the grounds. He always has had, and has carried off many first premiums. He’s on the board of managers, too, and they had a business meeting at the Chairman’s, which is next door to St. Michael’s—the semi-private establishment where I took Bowen. He was just unhitching George Fox, to come home, as I stepped out of the Hospital grounds and met him.”

“So you asked him for a lift down?” asked Aunt Betty, smiling.

“No, I didn’t ask. He was so preoccupied, and I so full of what poor old Hiram had told me, that I just ‘natchally’ stepped into the rear seat without the formality of a request. Truly, I don’t think he even noticed me till we were well out of the city limits and on to the quiet back road. Then I asked: ‘How much will you pay, Friend Oliver, toward the support of Hiram Bowen at St. Michael’s Hospital?’

“Then he heard and noticed. Also, he tried to get rid of his passenger; but I wouldn’t be set down. He gave me a rather strong bit of his opinion on meddlers in general and myself in particular, and finding he had me on his hands for all the distance here he said not another word. It was ‘Quaker Meeting’ in good earnest; but I felt as if I were riding with a man of iron and—it tired me!”

“Oh, you dear Master! Did you have any supper?” suddenly demanded Dorothy, with compunction that she hadn’t thought of this earlier.

“Oh! yes. Some little girls were holding a sidewalk ‘fair’ for the benefit of the children’s ward and, while the authorities inside were arranging for Hiram’s bestowal, I bought out their stock in trade and we ate it all together. I do love children!”

Aunt Betty rose and turning to Dorothy, remarked:

“That should be a much better use for your money when you find it than adopting the grandchildren of a rich old Hardheart! Come, child, we must to bed; and to-morrow, we’ll take home the twins. ‘Pass them on’ to Heartsease.”

“Oh! must we? But, maybe, they won’t keep them there. Then, course, you wouldn’t leave them just anywhere, out of doors, would you? Besides, I don’t know what Molly will say. She’s perfectly devoted to her ‘son,’ ’Nias.”

“Do you not? Then I know very well what her Aunt Lucretia and his honor, the Judge, will say; I fancy that their remarks will have some weight! But I’m not hard-hearted, as you suggest, and we shall see what we shall see!” answered Aunt Betty, in her bright, whimsical way; adding as she bade Mr. Winters good-night and kissed Dorothy just as if no “cloud” had ever been between them:

“I am glad to be at home. I am so glad to come, even thus late to the House Party.”

And though she had said the misunderstanding that had made both herself and Dolly so unhappy “should be set right that very night,” maybe this was her way of “setting” it so.

Thus ended another Day of that Wonderful Week, but the morning proved rainy and dark.

“No day for going to the County Fair,” remarked Mrs. Calvert as she appeared among the young folks, just as they came trooping in to breakfast. “We must think of something else. What shall it be? Since I’ve invited myself to your Party I want to get some fun out of it!”

Helena thought she had never seen anything lovelier than this charming old lady, who moved as briskly as a girl and entered into their amusements like one; and when nobody answered her question she volunteered the suggestion:

“Charades? Or a little play in the big barn?”

“Just the thing; the charades, I mean. There would hardly be time for getting ready for a play, with parts to study and so on. We might plan that for Friday evening, our last one together. But do you, my dear, gather part of your friends about you and arrange the charades. Enough of us must be left for audience, you know. Well, Dorothy, what is it? You seem so anxious to speak?”

“Why not ‘character’ studies and make everybody guess. There’s that attic full of trunks I discovered one day. Surely they must be full of lovely things; and oh! it’s so jolly to ‘dress up’! Afterward, we might have a little dance in the barn—May we, may we?”

“Surely, we may! Dinah has the keys to the trunks, only I warn you—no carelessness. It’s one of my notions to preserve the costumes of the passing years and I wouldn’t like them injured. You may use anything you find, on the condition of being careful.”

That rainy day promised to be the merriest of all; and Dorothy had quite forgotten some unpleasant things, till, breakfast being over and most of the company disappearing in pursuit of Dinah and her keys to the treasure-trunks, Aunt Betty laid a detaining touch upon her arm and said:

“But you and I, my dear, will have a little talk in my room.”

Down went her happiness in a flash. The “misunderstanding” had not been passed by, then; and as yet there had been no “setting right.” Mrs. Calvert’s face was not stern, saying this, but the girl so thought. Indeed, had she known it, Aunt Betty shrank more from the interview and the reproof she must give than did the culprit herself. However, shrinking did no good, and immediately the Mistress had seated herself she began:

“What grieved me most was your suspicion of Ephraim. Dorothy, that man’s skin may be black but his soul is as white as a soul can be. He has served me ever since he was able to toddle and I have yet to find the first serious fault in him. The loss of the money was bad enough, and your scant value of it bad. Why, child, do you know whose money that was?”

“I—I thought it was—mine.”

“It was—God’s.”

“Aunt—Betty!” almost screamed Dorothy in the shock of this statement.

“Yes, my dear, I mean it. He has given me a great deal of wealth but it was His gift, only. Or, His loan, I might better call it. I have to give an account of my stewardship, and as you will inherit after me, so have you.”

For a moment the girl could not reply, she was so amazed by what she heard. Then she ventured to urge:

“You said you gave it to me for my House Party. How could it be like that, then?”

“So I did. I ‘passed it on,’ as poor Hiram Bowen did the twins. Then it became your responsibility. It was a trust fund for the happiness of others, and for their benefit. Why, just think, if you hadn’t been so careless of it, how much good it would have done even yesterday, for that very old man! Then dear Seth wouldn’t have had to tax his small income to pay for a stranger’s keep. Ah! believe me, my Cousin Seth spends money lavishly, but never unwisely, and always for others. When I said ‘dangerously angry’ I meant it. I am, in some respects, always in danger, physically. I shall pass out of your life quite suddenly, some day, my darling, but I do not wish to do so by your fault.

“Now, enough of lectures. Kiss me and tell me that hereafter you will hold your inheritance as a ‘trust,’ and I shall trust you again to the uttermost. Next I want you to go over every incident of that night when you mislaid the money and maybe I can hit upon some clue to its recovery.”

It was a very sober Dorothy who complied. It didn’t seem a very pleasant thing to be an heiress. She had found that out before, but this grave interview confirmed the knowledge; and though they discussed the subject long and critically, they were no nearer any solution of the mystery than when they began.

“Well, it is a strange and most uncomfortable thing. However, we can do no more at present, and I’d like you to take a little drive with me.”

“This morning, Aunt Betty, in all this rain? Ought you? Won’t you get that bronchitis again? Dinah——”

“Dinah is an old fuss! She never has believed that I’m not soluble in water, like salt or sugar. Besides, I’m not going ‘in the rain,’ I’m going in the close carriage, along with you and the babies with the dreadful names. I’m going to have them renamed, if I can. Run along and put on your jacket. I think I’ve solved the riddle of my neighbor Oliver’s unhappiness and I’ll let no rain hinder me from making him glad again.”

“Dear Aunt Betty, will you do this for a man you do not like?”

“Of course. I’d do it for my worst enemy, if I knew—and maybe this poor miller is that. What ails that man is—remorse. He hasn’t done right but I’m going to give him the chance now, and see his round face fall into its old curves again.”

But good and unselfish as her mission was, for once the lady of Deerhurst’s judgment was mistaken.