The Indian summer night was mild. It was at tine very height of the festivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making their way together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of Kenilworth Castle came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing his club in their faces. Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gave back a step.
"Tom Catherwood! How dare you? You frightened me nearly to death."
"I'm sorry, Jinny, indeed I am," said the giant, repentant, and holding her hand in his.
"Where have you been?" demanded Virginia, a little mollified. "What makes you so late?"
"I've been to a Lincoln meeting," said honest Tom; "where I heard a very fine speech from a friend of yours."
Virginia tossed her head.
"You might have been better employed," said she, and added, with dignity,
"I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings."
"How about Judge Whipple?" said Tom.
She stopped. "Did you mean the Judge?" she asked, over her shoulder.
"No," said Tom, "I meant—"