"There was a caller—Miss Henniker; but I should not speak of her as old—only as very middle-aged," said Dorothea, and the Colonel gave vent to an awkward "Ha, ha!"
"Nobody else?" He was holding at bay the pending question, which he saw in his daughter's face.
"Yes, two others, but they were young: a Mr. and Miss Claughton,—Emmeline Claughton and her brother. You know the Curate, Mr. Claughton, who called the other day. Don't you remember? They are his brother and sister."
"Left my card on him to-day. Didn't think it needful to go in," said the Colonel.
"Was he at home?"
"Didn't ask, my dear. Blissful ignorance best in some cases, you know," said the Colonel, rather sheepishly still.
"What a pity! I should have liked to know the Claughtons."
Then Dorothea was silent, looking earnestly at her father, and the Colonel grew redder still.
"Well, well; now you've had your little jaunt, so perhaps you'll settle down for a while,—keep quiet, and try to be contented."
"Have I been discontented?" asked Dorothea. She came closer, and slipped a hand into her father's arm. "I should not like to be that. Discontent is so horrid. Father, if you and I could be more of friends, I shouldn't care so much about having outside friends. I don't think I should care at all," she said wistfully.