ld have this evening uninterrupted by
any friends."

"I guess that's so," said Flossie, "but it's hard to wait until
to-morrow to tell them how glad we are to see them."

"I love dat Dorothy girl, _myself_," said Uncle Harry's small daughter,
"and I love dat Nancy girl, too. Dat Dorothy girl always has candy for
me, and dat Nancy girl makes hats for my dolly."

Uncle Harry swung the tiny girl up to a seat on his shoulder, and his
blue eyes twinkled as he looked into the little, eager face.

"Don't you love them when they aren't giving you something?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" said the little maid, "but I love them _harder_ when they
do."

"Then you'll love me 'harder' than you do now if I give you a ride up to
the house?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she cried, and she laughed gayly as she rode in triumph
up the driveway, and into the house.

The evening was spent in the big living-room, with a small fire blazing
in the fireplace. It had been warm and sunny all day, but when evening
came, an east wind had risen, and the happy little party was glad to sit
cosily in doors. Dorothy and Nancy listened entranced while Mrs. Dainty
and Aunt Charlotte told of their travels. They had been south, they had
been west, and they had brought home beautiful souvenirs of every place
at which they had stayed.

Then Dorothy and Nancy told of the life at Glenmore, of the new friends
that they had met, and of Arabella and Patricia.

It was a happy evening.

Mr. Dainty had found it impossible to reach home until a week later, but
he had written a longer letter than usual, and had sent one especially
to Dorothy, and it seemed almost as if he were really talking to her as
she read it.

Bright and early next morning Mollie and Flossie raced over to the Stone
House, and the four chattered so fast, that the old gardener at work
near the fountain, took off his hat, and for a moment stood listening.
He was not near enough to know what they were saying, but he heard their
happy voices, now talking, now laughing, and he spoke his thoughts.

"Hear that now, hear that! An' will any man tell me that a garding is a
reel garding widout the sound o' merry voices? Sure, it's been so still
here the past few weeks that I begun ter talk ter meself, just ter break
the stillness, but it didn't do the trick, fer me voice ain't what yo
calls 'moosicle.' Oh, hear them now! It does me good, so it does."

There was news, and a plenty of it to tell, and whe