This was too much for quick-tempered Dorris. Out flashed her words:-- "Mr. Endicott cares so little for that sweet virtue that he will enjoy your pleasures while _you_ fight _his_ battles. If you will excuse me now I will return to the parlors;" and with little head proudly erect, Dorris started to enter the house, entertaining the fond hope that she had at last paid Keith for all his trials of her patience and patriotism. Alas! "The best laid plans o'mice and men gang aft a-gley;" and some one had carelessly left a footstool on the porch, and as Dorris's foot struck it Endicott was the one to spring forward and save her from falling. Lifting her eyes to acknowledge the courtesy, she met such a look of quiet reproach that her "Thank you" came very humbly from so proud a young lady; and when she reflected on the subject at that trying moment which we have all experienced when we have regained our temper, and are taking a mental retrospect of the occasion when we very foolishly lost it, it was in vain that she tried to justify herself by repeating his sneering words. Remembering the look that followed them, she said, in self-abasement, "I had no right to judge him," and in her humiliation avoided meeting him so successfully that for several days after her cousin's departure she neither saw nor heard of him, until at last she heard with relief that he had gone away for a short time, on receiving news of the death of a cousin,--his nearest relative. But when week after week passed, and Aunt Dorothy had several times wondered aloud what had become of Mr. Endicott, Dorris began to wonder as well, and to miss the magnetic presence that made him so charming to all; indeed, she discovered, to her own uncontrollable disgust, that she missed him even more than her cousin, whose warm and generous nature had endeared him to all his new friends. In the meantime Lieut. Allen called to say farewell to his former playmate, and the friend of his later years. What if Dame Rumor said he cherished a latent desire for a nearer title than either of these. Dorris said they were only firm and true friends; and the tenor of their talk seemed to prove that she was right, for as she turned from the old-time spinnet, where she had been singing the lovely little serenade of Thomas Heywood:-- "Pack clouds away, and welcome day; With night we banish sorrow; Sweet airs, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, plume thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow!" Allen said abruptly, "Dorris, for what are you waiting?" "Waiting?" repeated Dorris, wonderingly. "Yes; don't you remember "While year by year the suitors come To find her locked in silence dumb?"