George Brayton’s face had been getting redder and redder, and Euphemia’s handkerchief was not at her eyes, by any means, but he managed to stammer out: “Have you asked Zeb Fuller about it?” There was a sort of magic in the mention of that name, at least, to anybody in Ogleport, and it suddenly occurred to Mrs. Dryer that it was, indeed, from Zeb that her suspicions--information she had deemed it--had been derived, and at the same moment the Doctor himself began to wrestle with a new idea. “Dorothy Jane,” he remarked, “I begin to fear that----” But Effie had restrained her mirth as long as was in any way possible, and George Brayton permitted himself to catch the infection of it very freely. “Dr. Dryer,” he said, as soon as he could speak plainly again, “this must, indeed, be looked into; but we had better take our time at it. Other hands than Zeb’s have been at work on that affair. Mrs. Dryer deserves great credit for detecting it. I will come over again after tea, and she must tell me all about it. Just now I can’t stay any longer.” The Doctor and his wife sat and looked each other in the face in mute astonishment as the young man rose and walked to the parlor-door. They did not even breathe a word to Effie as she merrily followed him, and so they did not hear a syllable of what passed between those two in the outer hallway. Nobody else did, but it seemed to interest them very much. Indeed, as Brayton was compelled to whisper a part of it, he was also forced to lean his face very close to Euphemia’s in a way which would surely have caused Zebedee Fuller to say, had he been at hand: “Dorothy would hardly approve of that, but I do.” Alas, for Dorothy Jane! For once in their wedded life the Doctor himself was now able to turn upon her with: “I told you so. Now, if he lets it out we shall have all Ogleport laughing at us.” And that was just what Mrs. Dryer dreaded of all things in the world, for the Dorcas Society was to meet at her house the very next day. One consequence, however, was that when George Brayton “came over after tea,” he found that an important errand had called away his venerable superior, and that Mrs. Dryer was confined to her own room by a headache or something, leaving poor Euphemia to do the honors of the house all alone. So she did them. “Barnaby,” said Mrs. Brayton to our hero, that evening, “George tells me you agree with him that the less we say about this English matter the better.” “For the present, yes,” said Bar, “but such things always leak out after a while. I’d rather keep quiet as long as I can.” “And are you not a sort of a cousin of ours now?” asked Sibyl. “I wish you’d let it be so,” said Bar, “for I have no American cousins, that I know of.” “Perhaps they may turn up one of these days,” said Mrs. Brayton. “Anyhow, the Vernon estate, your father’s and mother’s, has done enough for us, and I’ll be glad enough to play aunt for you. Indeed, I’ll be as much of a mother to you as I can.”