y be satisfied as it is. You shall
have the cabin all to yourself."

"I'm not afraid of anything," said she, with some confusion on her
pretty face.

"You ought not to be afraid of your own cousin."

"My own what?" asked she, with a smile.

"Of your own cousin."

"Where is he?"

"I am he."

"You, Philip," laughed she.

"Perhaps you think I am joking; but I am not."

"You really don't mean to say that you are my cousin."

"I do really mean to say it, and I know it is true."

"How can that be?"

"It so happens that my mother and your father are brother and sister;
and I believe the relationship of cousin is usually established in some
such way."

"Doubtless you are quite right, Mr. Philip; but my father has but one
sister, and she does not happen to have any children. Therefore I
cannot possibly have any such cousin as you mention," said she, smiling
at what she deemed her overwhelming argument; and perhaps she thought I
was getting up a conspiracy against her.

"Your conclusion would be entirely just if the premises were correct.
Your father's sister had one child."

"Had, but has not now. Her little son was lost on the Missouri River."

"Supposed to be lost, but not lost," I replied, warmly. "I am that
son."

"Do you really mean so, Philip?" she inquired, looking at me earnestly,
as if to fathom the trick I was playing upon her.

"I do most certainly."

"What is your other name?"

"Farringford."

"That was certainly the name of my aunt's husband; but it is impossible
to believe so strange a story."

"I am afraid your father and your grandfather would refuse to believe
what I say. Now, while we are chasing Mr. Whippleton, I will tell you
the whole story."

I did tell it, and I had an attentive auditor; but when I had finished
it, I was taken aback by her declaring that I had been reading dime
novels, and had stolen the plot of one of them. But she said it so
prettily and so good-naturedly, that I forgave her on the instant,
though she did not sue for pardon.

"But I have heard that your father--" she began.

"Was a drunkard and a spendthrift," I added, completing the sentence
for her. "He was, but is not now. He is a sober, honest, prudent, and
Christian man."

"I am glad to hear that, for I was forbidden years ago even to mention
his name," added Marian. "I don't think my father or grandfather will
believe this story."

"They will have to believe it, if evidence will convince them,