ope,
and why I was not told the errand. Dear, dear Donald! And you knew it
all before you went away; and that is why you sometimes seemed silent
and troubled, and why you were so patient and good and gentle with me,
even when I teased you and made sport of you! Uncle told me this
afternoon all that he has to tell, and I have assured him that I am
Dorry, and nobody else, and that he need not be bothered about it any
more (though you know, Don, I cannot help feeling awfully. It's so
dreadful to think of us all being so mixed up. The very idea of my not
being Dorry makes me miserable. Yet, if I were anybody else, would I not
be the first to know it? Yes, Donald, whether you find proof or not, you
dear, good, noble old fellow, _I am your sister_--I feel it in my very
bones--and you are my brother. Nobody on earth can make me believe you
are not. That dreadful man said in his letter that it was to George
Reed's interest that I should be known as Dorothy Reed. Oh, Don, as if
it were not to _my_ interest, too, and yours! But if it is not so, if it
really is _true_ that I am not Dorothy, but Delia, why, I must be Delia
in earnest, and do my duty to my--_her_ mother's brother. He writes that
his wife is sick, and that he is miserable, with no comforts at home and
no one to care whether he is good or bad. So, you see, I _must_ go and
leave you and Uncle, if I am Delia. And, Don, there's another thing,
though it's the least part of it: if I am Delia, I am poor, and it is
right that I should earn my living, though you and Uncle should both
oppose it, for I am no relation to any one,--I mean any one here,--and
it would not be honorable for me to stay here in luxury.

"I can see your eyes flash at this, dear brother, or perhaps you will
say I am foolish to think of such things yet a while. So I am, may be,
but I must talk to you of all that is in my thoughts. It is very lonely
here to-night. The rain is pouring against the windows, and it seems
like November; and, do you know, I dread to-morrow, for I am afraid I
may show in _some_ way to dear Uncle George that I am not absolutely
certain he is any relation to me. I feel so strange! Even Jack and Liddy
do not know who I really am. Wouldn't Josie and Ed be surprised if they
knew about things? I wish they did. I wish every one did, for secrecy is
odious.

"Donald, dear, this is an imbecile way of talking. I dare say I shall
tear up my letter in the morning. No, I shall not. It belongs