"_I_ know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, coming prettily to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite _roles_ is to act as peacemaker on such public occasions as the present, when the innate goodness of her disposition can be successfully paraded. "It is that he wishes you to see how unmeaning are your words, and how vulgar are all hackneyed expressions. Besides"--running back to Billy's former speech--"you should not believe all Brewster tells you; he is only a groom, and probably says a good deal more than--than he ought." "There!" cries Billy, with wrathful triumph, "you were just going to say 'more than his prayers,' and if _that_ isn't a 'hackneyed expression,' I don't know what's what. You ought to correct yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin correcting other people." "I was _not_ going to say that," declares Dora, in a rather sharper tone. "Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip of your tongue." "I was _not_," reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks growing pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue eyes changed to steel gray. "That's a---" "William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, and so for a time puts a stop to the family feud. CHAPTER III. THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again--this time ostensibly on business matters--and papa and he discuss turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the interview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a restorative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to look with more cheerfulness towards the end. Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself. Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she never does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, so becoming to white fingers, as that in which the swift little shuttle is brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he is beside my sister, I never raise my head without encountering his blue eyes fixed upon me. His eyes are very handsome, large and dark, and wonderfully kind, eyes that let one see into the true heart beyond, indeed, his whole face is full of beauty. He makes no unwise attempt to hide it, beyond the cultivation of a fair brown mustache that does not altogether conceal the delicately-formed mouth beneath, the lips of which are fine and almost sensitive enough to be womanish, but for a certain touch of quiet determination about them and the lower jaw. He is tall and rather slightly molded, and has a very clean-shaped head. His hands are white and thin, but large, his feet very passable. "Do you know," he is saying to sympathetic Dora, while I take the above inventory of his charms, "I have quite an affection for this house? I was born here, and lived in it until my father died."