she
were really his sister's child_.

The storm became so dismal that Dorry poked the fire into a blaze, and
lighted the student's lamp that she had placed on the table behind the
arm-chair. Then she took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and an oval
hand-glass from her dressing-table, and, looking hurriedly about her to
be doubly sure that she was alone, she sat down resolutely, as if saying
to herself: "Now, we'll see!"

Poor Dot! The photograph showed Donald, a handsome, manly boy, of whom
any loving sister might be proud; but the firm, boyish face, with its
square brows, roundish features, and shining black hair, certainly did
not seem to be in the least like the picture that looked anxiously at
her out of the hand-glass--a sweet face, with its oval outline, soft,
dark eyes and long lashes, its low, arched eyebrows, its expressive
mouth, and sunny, dark brown tresses.

Feature by feature, she scanned the two faces carefully, unconsciously
drawing in her warm-tinted cheeks and pouting her lips, in her desire to
resemble the photograph; but it was of no use. The two faces would not
be alike; and yet, as she looked again, was there not something similar
about the foreheads and the lower line of the faces? Hastily pushing
back her hair with one hand, she saw with joy that, excepting the
eyebrows, there really was a likeness: the line where the hair began was
certainly almost the same on both faces.

"Dear, dear old Donald! Why, we are just alike there! I'll show Uncle
to-morrow. It's wonderful."

Dorry laughed a happy little laugh, all by herself.

"Besides," she thought, as she laid the mirror away, "we are alike, in
our natures, and in our ways and in loving each other, and I don't care
a bit what anybody says to the contrary."

Thus braced, she drew her chair closer to the table and began a letter
to Donald. A vague consciousness that by this time every one in the
house must be in bed and asleep deepened her sense of being alone with
Donald as she wrote. It seemed that he read every word as soon as it
fell upon the paper, and that in the stillness of the room she almost
could hear him breathe.

It was a long letter. At any other time, Dorry's hand would have wearied
with the mere exercise of writing so many pages; but there was so much
to tell that she took no thought of fatigue. It was enough that she was
pouring out her heart to Donald.

"I know now," the letter went on to say, "why you have gone to Eur