the wagon,
and, what was even stranger, could not account for the lack of it. Miss
Thorn was seated in the corner; in spite of the darkness I could see
that she was laughing at us still.

"I feel very badly that I should have taken you away from the dance," we
heard her say.

"We don't dance," I answered clumsily, "and we were glad to come."

"Yes, we were glad to come," Farrar chimed in.

Then we relapsed into a discomfited silence, and wished we were anywhere
else. But Miss Thorn relieved the situation by laughing aloud, and with
such a hearty enjoyment that instead of getting angry and more mortified
we began to laugh ourselves, and instantly felt better. After that we
got along famously. She had at once the air of good fellowship and
the dignity of a woman, and she seemed to understand Farrar and me
perfectly. Not once did she take us over our heads, though she might
have done so with ease, and we knew this and were thankful. We began to
tell her about Mohair and the cotillon, and of our point of observation
from the Florentine galleried porch, and she insisted she would join us
there. By the time we reached the house we were thanking our stars she
had come. Mrs. Cooke came out under the port-cochere to welcome her.

"Unfortunately there is no one to dance with you, Marian," she said;
"but if I had not by chance gone through your uncle's pockets, there
would have been no one to meet you."

I think I had never felt my deficiency in dancing until that moment. But
Miss Thorn took her aunt's hand affectionately in hers.

"My dear Aunt Maria," said she, "I would not dance to-night if there
were twenty to choose from. I should like nothing better than to look on
with these two. We are the best of friends already," she added, turning
towards us, "are we not?"

"We are indeed," we hastened to assure her.

Mrs. Cooke smiled.

"You should have been a man, Marian," she said as they went upstairs
together.

We made our way to the galleried porch and sat down, there being a lull
in the figures just then. We each took out a cigar and lighted a match;
and then looked across at the other. We solemnly blew our matches out.

"Perhaps she doesn't like smoke," said Farrar, voicing the sentiment.

"Perhaps not," said I.

Silence.

"I wonder how she will get along with the Ten?" I queried.

"Better than with us," he answered in his usual strain. "They're
trained."

"Or with Allen?" I added irresistibly.

"Women ar