while it increased Slade's wrath, and showed
him the futility of pursuing his persecutions for the present, made him
also savagely hopeful.

"Well," he muttered to himself, as he stole through the rain, along
the dark road towards the shabby house which was to shelter him for the
night, "I don't give her up yet by a good deal, and there's considerable
worry ahead of George Reed still. Confound it! If I had that man's money
and position I could work out the case to a certainty. But what can a
fellow do without a dime or a friend? What if the boy _has_ gone over
the sea to find out for himself, he isn't likely to succeed after all
these years; and if he _does_ get any further particulars, why they're
just as apt as not to be all in my favor. The girl is just as likely to
be mine as theirs. Ten chances to one she's Kate's child, after all.
Things will work right, yet. I'll bide my time."

CHAPTER XXX.

A TIME OF SUSPENSE.

THAT same morning, after Josie had gone home to assist her mother in
preparations for the trip to California, Dorothy, exhausted by the
morning's emotions, fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did not
waken till late in the afternoon. By the bed stood a little table, on
which were two fine oranges, each on a Venetian glass plate, and
surmounted by a card. On one was written: "Miss Dorothy Reed, with the
high, respectful consideration of her sympathizing friend, Edward Tyler,
who hopes she will soon be well;" and the other bore a limping verse in
Josie's familiar handwriting:

"To this fair maid no _quarter_ show,
Good Orange, sweet and yellow,
But let her eat you--in a certain way
That Dorothy and I both know--
That's a good fellow!"

Dorry appreciated both the notes and the oranges, and her spirits rose
again as she heard Liddy softly singing in the next room. That evening,
after she and her uncle had had a long talk together, she kissed him for
good-night, and, though there were tears in her bright eyes, she looked
a spirited little maiden who did not intend to give herself up to
doubting and grieving, so long as "there was more than hope" that she
was Dorothy.

Half an hour later, the young girl stole softly down to the deserted
sitting-room, lit only by the glowing remains of a wood-fire, and taking
an unlighted student's lamp from the centre-table, made her rapid way
back to her pretty bedroom up stairs. Here, afte