Dosia hailed with delight a proposition made by Mrs. Leverich to get up a party and drive over one evening to a neighboring town to hear a lecture given there by a friend. The lecture was nothing, the friend not a very great attraction, but the expedition in itself gave an excuse for a drive, and a supper on the return to the Leverich mansion. It was early April, but the weather was unseasonably warm, and there was a golden moon. They were to go in a “barge”—the local name for a long, low, uncovered wagon, with two lateral seats, holding about thirty people. Mrs. Leverich had insisted on plenty of lap-robes and extra wrappings and even umbrellas, in spite of remonstrances. She herself could not go, but there were plenty of chaperons, little Mrs. Snow having been pressed into service as a substitute at the last moment, with every promise of mild evening weather especially beneficial to rheumatism. Some one had a bugle that woke the echoes as the caravan drew up at each door to gather the different segments of the party. Dosia felt wild with glee as she bundled into the barge, amid merry shrieks and laughter, and found herself seated by Mr. William Snow, while Lawson took the place on the other side of her. Ada and Mr. Sutton were farther down, with Mrs. Snow near them. Opposite Dosia was a chaperon of the chaperons. Dosia hardly knew what she was saying as she laughed and talked with the crowd, while Lawson conversed across with Mrs. Malcolmson, but the sense of his nearness never left her. Billy at last got a chance to say to her in a low, intense voice: “Why are you always listening for what _he_ says?” Her glance followed his, and her color rose. “Dear little Billy is rude; Billy must learn manners,” she retorted gayly, but with a sharpness below the gayety. “I don’t care whether it’s rude or not. Here I’m sitting by you for the first time this week, and you don’t seem to hear a word I say. I’ve been trying to talk to you, and you don’t pay the slightest attention.” “Oh, you poor child!” said Dosia. “Would it like some candy?” “It’s no use talking to me like that,” returned William stubbornly. “I know you’re a year older than I am——” “Two,” interpolated Dosia. “It’s seventeen months and three days—but that’s nothing to do with it. It’s no use your trying the grandmother act—I could marry you, just the same, if I _am_ younger. Mrs. Stanford is two years older than her husband, and Mrs. Taylor is five years older than hers. Lots of people do it—but that’s not the point now. I’m miles older than you in everything but years. I’ve had experience of the world, and you haven’t.” His belligerent tone softened, and he looked at her tenderly as he towered above her, his blue eyes alight. “You need somebody to take care of you. I don’t care whether you believe it or not, I know what I’m talking about. I wish you’d drop that fellow.” “Why?” asked Dosia, with dangerous calm.