“Very well, then,” responded Kilgariff. “I do not like sailing under false colours; but, as you know all, why, it will be a special pleasure to me to be permitted to call you ‘Dorothy.’” “Now, what were you going to say when I interrupted you?” asked Dorothy, the direct. “I’m afraid I forget.” “No, you don’t, or at least you can remember in such a case. So think a bit, Owen, and tell me what you were going to say. It was something about Evelyn.” “Why do you think that?” “Why, for several reasons. For one thing, you caught sight of Evelyn just at that moment, as she was teaching her mare to kneel down for her to mount. You heard her voice, too, as she chided the mare in half playful fashion for rising too abruptly after the mount. A woman’s voice means much to a man of sensitive nature. She talks in just that way to the children—my babies—and their liking for it is positively wonderful. Only this morning Mammy and I were having all sorts of trouble to get them out of their bath. Bob, the boy, was bent upon spending the rest of the day in the tub, and was disposed to raise a rumpus over every effort to lift him out, and Mildred, girl-like, took her cue from her ‘big brother.’ In the midst of the turmoil Evelyn came in. She assumed a look of astonishment, which attracted Bob’s attention and for the moment quieted him. Then she said:— “‘Oh, Bob! I m sorry you’re bad. But you are. You’re very bad indeed, so I mustn’t tell you about the ten little Injuns. You’re getting to be bad just like them.’ “By that time she had lifted the boy out of the tub and dried him and slipped a garment upon him, he not protesting in the least. Then she stood him up in her lap, and, looking at him in seeming surprise, she exclaimed:— “‘Why, Bob isn’t bad a bit! Evey made a great big mistake. Evey’s going to tell Bob about the ten little Injun boys.’ And from that moment there was no disturbance in the nursery except the noise of joyous laughter. “I said to her:— “‘You deal with them just as if they were wild animals to be tamed.’ “She answered:— “‘So they are, only people often forget it, cruelly.’” “Well, now,” said Kilgariff, “let me have your other reason, or reasons, for thinking that what I set out to say had some reference to Evelyn. I plead guilty to your charge that I caught sight of Evelyn teaching the mare, and that I was charmed by the sweetness and sympathetic jollity of her voice, as she addressed the animal in her winning way. But you were going to offer another fact in support of your assumption. What was it?” “Why, simply that you hadn’t spoken for ten minutes before you addressed me. You were meditating, and whenever you meditate nowadays, you are thinking of Evelyn.” “Are you sure of that?” “Absolutely. You are not always aware of the fact, but the fact is always there. I like it to be always there.” “Why, Dorothy?” “Why, because I want you to be that way with Evelyn. It will mean happiness in the future for both of you.”