ister house to have a talk with Dora on a subject in which they were
now both so much interested. She had been very much surprised when the
girl had come to her and freely avowed her feelings and hopes, but she
had been delighted. She liked a spirit of that sort, and it was a joy to
her to work with one who possessed it. But she knew human nature, and she
was very much afraid that Dora's purpose might weaken. It was quite
natural that a young person, in a moment of excitement and pique, should
figuratively raise her sword in air and vow a vow; but it was also quite
natural, when the excitement and pique had cooled down, that the young
person should experience what might be called a "vow-fright," and feel
unable to go through with her part. In a case such as Dora's, this was
very possible indeed, and all that Miss Panney had planned to say on her
present visit was intended to inspire the girl, if it should be needed,
with some of her own matured inflexibility and fixedness of purpose. But
if the man were doing this sort of thing already and Dora should know it,
she would have a right to be discouraged.

Before the old lady reached the Bannisters' gate, she saw Mr. Haverley,
in his gig, drive away. This brightened her up a little.

"He comes here, anyway," she thought; "what a pity Dora is not in."

Nevertheless, she went on to the Bannister house; and when she found Dora
was in, she began to scold her.

"This will never do, will never do," she said. "Get angry with him if you
choose, but don't show it. If you do that, you may crash him too low or
bounce him too high, and, in either case, he may be off before you know
it. It is too early in the game to show him that he has made you angry."

"But if he doesn't want me, I don't want him," said Dora, sulkily.

"If you think that way, my dear," said Miss Panney, "you may as well make
up your mind to make a bad match, or die an old maid. The right man very
seldom comes of his own accord; it is nearly always the wrong one. If you
happen to meet the right man, you should help him to know that he ought
to come. That is the way to look at it. That young Haverley does not know
yet who it is that he cares for. He is just floating along, waiting for
some one to thrust out a boat-hook and pull him in."

"I shall marry no floating log," said Dora, stiffly.

The old lady laughed.

"Perhaps that was not a very good figure of speech," she said; "but
really, my dear, you must not i