uld
break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and consoling, but at
last, finding it impossible to draw forth an intelligible word from the
sobs and tears, she took the little thing in her arms and carried her to
her father. Raeburn was a great child lover, and had a habit of carrying
goodies in his pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with
whom he was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which
restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.

"She must have lost her way," he said, glancing from the lovely little
tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands of
the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently she
volunteered a remark.

"Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ran
away."

"Where is your home?" asked Erica.

"Me don't know! Me don't know!" cried Dolly, bursting into tears again,
and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. "Father! Father, Dolly wants
father."

"We will come and look for him," said Erica, "but you must stop crying,
and you know your father will be sure to come and look for you."

At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if expecting
to see him close by.

"He isn't there," she said, piteously.

"Come and let us look for him," said Erica.

Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled up the
steep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused for a moment,
wondering which direction they had better take, when a voice behind her
made her start.

"Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!"

Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the arms of
a tall, dark, rather foreign-looking man, who caught her up and held her
closely.

He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Erica
thought his face the noblest she had ever seen.

CHAPTER XIX. At The Museum

Methought I heard one calling: "Child,"
And I replied: 'My Lord!'"
George Herbert

A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradual growth
of the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acorn in a glass
of water and watch the slow progress during long months. First one tiny
white thread is put forth, then another, until at length the glass is
almost filled with a tangle of white fibers, a sturdy little stem
raises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is to live, must be at once
transplanted into good soi