“Huh! I don’t know. That there Mrs. Sands—Dorcas Sands is the way she’s called ’cause the Friends don’t give nobody titles—I guess there ain’t a more unhappy woman on our mountain than her.”
“Why, Littlejohn! Fancy! With such a—a good man; isn’t he?”
“Good accordin’ as you call goodness. He ain’t bad, not so bad; only you want to look sharp when you have dealings with him. They say he measures the milk his folks use in the cookin’ and if more butter goes one week than he thinks ought to he skimps ’em the next. I ain’t stuck on that kind of a man, myself, even if he is all-fired rich. Gid-dap, boys!”
With which expression of his sentiments the young mountaineer touched up the team that had rather lagged behind the others and the conversation dropped. But during all that homeward ride there lingered in Dorothy’s memory that strange, startled, half-cognizant gaze which gentle Dorcas Sands had cast upon poor Luna. But by this time, the afflicted guest had become as one of the family; and the fleeting interest of any passer-by was accepted as mere curiosity and soon forgotten.
After dinner Mr. Winters disappeared; and the younger members of the House Party disposed themselves after their desires; some for a stroll in the woods, some in select, cosy spots for quiet reading; and a few—as Mabel, Helena, and Monty—for a nap. But all gathered again at supper-time and a happy evening followed; with music and talk and a brief bedtime service at which the Master officiated.
But Dorothy noticed that he still looked anxious and that he was preoccupied, a manner wholly new to her beloved Mr. Seth. So, as she bade him good-night she asked:
“Is it anything I can help, dear Master?”
“Why do you fancy anything’s amiss, lassie?”
“Oh! you show it in your eyes. Can I help?”
“Yes. You may break the news to Dinah that those twins are on our hands for—to-night at least. I’m sorry, but together you two must find them a place to sleep. We can’t be unchristian you know—not on the Lord’s own day!”