ee is that he should not spend all his
days in 'Ya'mouth.' I'm going to take him to camp with me, to act as
handy-man for all of us. That will give me a chance to see what stuff
he's made of; and if he's worth it--if he's worth it--I'll take him down
to Richmond and set him at the law.

"Molly, however, must let him alone. That girl can upset more plans than
the wisest man can lay; and if she gets to teasing him on account of his
strange bashfulness she'll scare him away from us and disappoint his
mother's tender heart. _She_ thinks that 'son' is a paragon of all the
virtues. So does this other mother who's just joined us, think of her
beloved Montmorency Vavasour-Stark. What a name! Between them and their
'laddies' I reckon I shall have less peace than from the wildest of
tricksy Molly's capers."

"Schuyler, you mustn't be hard on her. She's exactly like what you were
at her age! And she is the dearest child, you know it!"

"I must have been what you call 'a sweet thing,' then! But, of course,
she's my own 'crow,' therefore she's pure white," laughed the adoring
father, with more earnest than jest.

"Also, brother, in all your plans for others don't forget little
Dorothy's. I know you're busy but I must find out who her own people
are. I _must_. It's a sin and a heartless one to keep her young heart
longer in suspense. I know she often ponders the thing, in spite of her
cheerfulness, even gayety."

To which he returned:

"Don't attribute more pondering to her than belongs. Of the two I fancy
you do the most of that. Nor think I've forgotten her interests. Her
history is already being unravelled, thread by thread, and stitch by
stitch. When the thread's wound clear up I trust it may make a goodly
ball."

"Oh! my dear brother, what do you mean?" cried Aunt Lucretia, eagerly.

"I mean that I set old Ephraim Cook to the task. He's already down at
Annapolis, fairly burrowing in archives and genealogies, and the
skeleton closets of all our old Maryland families. It's the most
congenial task he ever undertook in all his generally-useful life; for
back here in 'Markland' he's long ago prepared a history of the
peninsula that deserve publishing. He can trace every Bluenose household
to its very beginning, and claims his own came to this side the sea in
the Mayflower. That's one reason he wants Melvin, the last of his race,
to make a name for it. Trust me he'll forage for our Dorothy better than
I could myself; but he