"Mrs. Carr--Dorothy Carr." "Pretty name," remarked Dick, with evident admiration. "If you don't mind, I'll call you 'Dorothy' till the train goes back. It will be something for me to remember in the desert waste of my empty years to come." A friendly, hospitable impulse seized Mrs. Carr. "Why should you go?" she inquired, smiling. "If you've been in the habit of spending your Summers here, you needn't change on our account. We'd be glad to have you, I'm sure. A dear old friend of my husband's is already here." "Fine or superfine?" "Superfine," returned Dorothy, feeling very much as though the clock had been turned back twenty years or more and she was at a children's party again. "You can bet your sweet life I'll stay," said Dick, "and if I bother you at any time, just say so and I'll skate out, with no hard feelings on either side. You may need me when the rest of the bunch gets here." "The rest of--oh Harlan, come here a minute!" She had caught him as he was going into the library with his work, thinking that a change of environment might possibly produce an acceptable change in the current of his thoughts. "Dick," said Dorothy, when Harlan came to the door, "this is my husband. Mr. Chester, Mr. Carr." For days Harlan had not seen Dorothy with such rosy cheeks, such dancing eyes, nor half as many dimples. Bewildered, and not altogether pleased, he awkwardly extended his hand to Mr. Chester, with a conventional "how do you do?" Dick wrung the offered hand in a mighty grip which made Harlan wince. "I congratulate you, Mr. Carr," he said gallantly, "upon possessing the fairest ornament of her sex. Guess this letter is for you, isn't it? I found it in the post-office while the keeper was out, and just took it. If it doesn't belong here, I'll skip back with it." "Thanks," murmured Harlan, rubbing the injured hand with the other. "I--where did you come from?" "The station," explained Dick, pleasantly. "I never trace myself back of where I was last seen." "He's going to stay with us, Harlan," put in Dorothy, wickedly, "so you mustn't let us keep you away from your work. Come along, Dick, and I'll show you our cow." They went out, followed by a long, low whistle of astonishment from Harlan which Dorothy's acute ears did not miss. Presently Mr. Carr retreated into the library, and locked the door, but he did not work. The book was at a deadlock, half a paragraph beyond "the flower-like hands of Elaine," of which, indeed, the author had confessed his inability to write. "Dick," thought Harlan. "Mr. Chester. A young giant with a grip like an octopus. 'The fairest ornament of her sex.' Never, never heard of him before. Some old flame of Dorothy's, who has discovered her whereabouts and brazenly followed her, even on her honeymoon."