"Yes; but there are plenty more. I say, may I?—may I?" She eagerly caught hold of his coat.
"How long before your birthday?"
"Just a week from to-day. Do, please, let me have a frolic!"
"Poor child! you look as if you needed some relaxation," said he, looking down into her radiant face, with an expression of mock compassion.
"Upon my word, Uncle Guy, it is awfully dull here. If it were not for Charon and Mazeppa I should be moped to death. Do, pray, don't look at me as if you were counting the hairs in my eyelashes. Come, say yes: do, Uncle Guy."
"Take your hands off of my coat, and have as many parties as you like, provided you keep to your own side of the house. Don't come near my study with your Babel, and don't allow your company to demolish my flowers. Mind, not a soul is to enter the greenhouse. The parlors are at your service, but I will not have a regiment of wildcats tearing up and down my greenhouse and flower garden; mind that." He stepped into his buggy.
"Bravo! I have won my wager, and got the party too! Hugh Cluis bet me a papier-mache writing-desk that you would not give me a party. When I send his invitation I will write on the envelope 'the writing-desk is also expected.' Hey, shadow, where did you creep from?" She fixed her merry eyes on Beulah, who just then appeared on the terrace. Dr. Hartwell leaned from the buggy, and looked earnestly at the quiet little figure.
"Do you want anything, Beulah?"
"No, sir; I thought you had gone. May I open the gate for you?"
"Certainly, if you wish to do something for me." His pale features relaxed, and his whole face lighted up, like a sun-flushed cloud.