“I am your cousin Paul,” he said smilingly, “though I am afraid I am introducing myself almost as briefly as your father just now excused himself to me. He told me I would find you here, but he himself was hastening on a Samaritan mission.”
“With a box in his hand?” said the girls simultaneously, exchanging glances with each other again.
“With a box containing some restorative, I think,” responded Paul, a little wonderingly.
“Restorative! So THAT'S what he calls it now, is it?” said one of the girls saucily. “Well, no one knows what's in the box, though he always carries it with him. Thee never sees him without it”—
“And a roll of paper,” suggested the other girl.
“Yes, a roll of paper—but one never knows what it is!” said the first speaker. “It's very strange. But no matter now, Paul. Welcome to Hawthorn Hall. I am Jane Bunker, and this is Dorcas.” She stopped, and then, looking down demurely, added, “Thee may kiss us both, cousin Paul.”
The young man did not wait for a second invitation, but gently touched his lips to their soft young cheeks.
“Thee does not speak like an American, Paul. Is thee really and truly one?” continued Jane.
Paul remembered that he had forgotten his dialect, but it was too late now.
“I am really and truly one, and your own cousin, and I hope you will find me a very dear”—