the D's. The more questions
they asked, the better he liked it, and the more sure he became that his
Don and Dot were the brightest, most intelligent pair of young folk
under the sun. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the holiday as heartily as
they did, excepting when Dorothy, toward the latter part of the
afternoon, surprised him with a blank refusal to go nearly three hundred
feet above the street.

You shall hear all about it:

They were homeward bound,--that is to say, they were on their way to the
down-town ferry-boat that would carry them to the railroad
station,--when Donald suddenly proposed that they should stay over till
a later train.

"And suppose we walk on down to Wall Street, Uncle," he continued, "and
go into Trinity Church. There's a magnificent view from the spire."

"Yes," was his uncle's rather frightened comment. "But the spire is more
than two hundred and eighty feet high. What are you going to do about
that?"

"Why, climb up, sir, of course. You know there's a good stairway nearly
to the top, perhaps all the way. Anyhow, we can get up there, I know;
and Ed Tyler says the view is perfectly stupendous."

"So I've heard," said Uncle, half ready to yield; "and the climb is
stupendous too."

"Yes, but you can look down and see the city, and the harbor, and all
the shipping, and the East River, and everything. There's an hour to
spare yet. We can take it easy. What say you, Uncle?"

"Well, I say yes," said Uncle, with forced heartiness, for he dearly
loved to oblige the twins.

Then they turned to Dorry, though it seemed hardly necessary; she always
was ready for an adventure. To their surprise, she responded
emphatically:

"And _I_ say, please let me wait somewhere till Uncle and you come down
again. I don't care to go up."

"Why, Dot, are you tired?" asked her uncle, kindly.

"Oh, no, Uncle, not a bit. But whenever I stand on a high place I always
feel just as if I _must_ jump off. Of course, I wouldn't jump, you know,
but I don't wish to have the feeling. It's _so_ disagreeable."

"I should think as much," said Donald; but Mr. Reed walked on toward the
ferry, silently, with compressed lips and a flushed countenance; he did
not even mention the steeple project again.

Meantime the noble old church on Broadway stood calmly overlooking the
bustle and hurry of Wall Street, where the "money, money, money" chorus
goes on day after day, ceasing only on Sundays and holidays, and when
the clust