She belonged to a pious sect which held all mirth to be
ungodly.

"Sally," Dick was saying, "I've dreamed of your biscuits night and day
since I ate the last one. Are we going to have 'em for lunch?"

"No biscuits in this house to-day," grumbled the deity of the kitchen, in
an attempt to be properly stern, "and as I've told you more than once, my
name ain't 'Sally.' It's Mis' Smithers, that's wot it is, and I'll thank
you to call me by it."

"Between those who love," continued Dick, with a sidelong glance at
Dorothy, who stood near by, appalled at his daring, "the best is none too
good for common use. If my heart breaks the bonds of conventional
restraint, and I call you by the name under which you always appear to me
in my longing dreams, why should you not be gracious, and forgive me? Be
kind to me, Sally, be just a little kind, and throw together a pan of
those biscuits in your own inimitable style!"

"Run along with you, you limb of Satan," cried Mrs. Smithers, brandishing
a floury spoon.

"Come along, Dorothy," said Dick, laying a huge but friendly paw upon Mrs.
Carr's shoulder; "we're chased out." He put his head back into the
kitchen, however, to file a parting petition for biscuits, which was
unnecessary, for Mrs. Smithers had already found her rolling-pin and had
begun to sift her flour.

Outside, he duly admired Maud, who was chewing the cud of reflection under
a tree, created a panic in the chicken yard by lifting Abdul Hamid
ignominiously by the legs, to see how heavy he was, and chased Claudius
Tiberius under the barn.

"If that cat turns up missing some day," he said, "don't blame me. He
looks so much like Uncle Ebeneezer that I can't stand for him."

"There's something queer about Claudius, anyway," ventured Dorothy. "Mrs.
Smithers says that uncle killed him the week before he died, and----"

"Before who died?"

"Claudius--no, before uncle died, and she buried him, and he's come to
life again."

"Uncle, or Claudius?"

"Claudius, you goose," laughed Dorothy.

"If I knew just how nearly related we were," remarked Dick, irrelevantly
enough, "I believe I'd kiss you. You look so pretty with all your dimples
hung out and your hair blowing in the wind."

Dorothy glanced up, startled, and inclined to be angry, but it was
impossible to take offence at such a mischievous youth as Dick was at that
moment. "We're not related," she said, coolly, "except by marriage."

"Well, that's near enough," ret