"Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my Tears."
"There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep bottles in Heaven,—and what sort would He keep?"
"I think you will know more about such things when you grow older," was Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine without.
"You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself as she read the lines.
"That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little girl pouted.
Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to their feet with exclamations of dismay.
A vivid gleam of scarlet shut away the daylight, and a pair of sea-blue eyes, set in an olive-hued face, were looking at them with much curiosity.
The two older girls stood speechless, facing the intruder, whose gaze wandered with respectful curiosity over the regal form and gold-brown hair of the one, whose mouth was decidedly scornful, as were also her steady blue eyes, which regarded him fearlessly, despite her quaking heart.
Then the new-comer's eyes turned to the smaller figure; and a flash of admiration came into them as his hand stole to his head and removed its covering, while he said with unmistakable courtesy, "Do not be alarmed, I beg of you,—I mean no harm."
"What do you want?" Mary Broughton demanded, seeming in no wise softened by his gentle bearing.