ner, and their pet sons will sit in the House of Representatives with the riffraff, as they call us."

"It will be a great day for the House, papa," said Dorothy, laughing.

"I don't believe the Capitol will doff its dome for them."

CHAPTER III.

A COUNCIL.

"MY DEAR BARBARA: Papa, as you know, bought Elmholme some months ago. It has the special advantage of being 'an ancestral home,' and has an aristocratic appearance and many traditions. That the traditions are not our traditions makes them none the less valuable to papa, but I feel like an interloper here, while the descendants of the stately old gentleman who built the house are living in meaner newer houses outside our gates.

"But the Allens, be it said, bear us no ill-will, show us no envy if they have any, but only gratitude to papa, for having relieved their financial embarrassment by ready money. They live at our gates, three brothers with charming high-bred wives and a host of pretty children. At least, I have an impression of generic beauty. I do not care for children, as you know, so I let them pass without individual scrutiny. They use Elmholme

as a play-ground, by permission, but they are very well bred and avoid the flower-beds.

"Mrs. Allen, No. 2-Mrs. George-called upon me yesterday and begged that I would suggest some means of getting a governess. They can not afford to send the children to private schools away, and must have home teaching. I thought of you. Would you undertake it? I know that you will not share my loneliness at Elmholme, and that this opportunity to make yourself independent of relatives may appeal to you. If you will come, write at once, or come to Elmholme and take a nearer view of the situation, though my father has a visitor whom you might not like. He is Judge Chipman's son, though I must acknowledge that he is much more of a gentleman than his father.

"My father says he is the rising young man of the State. I wish my father had not found it necessary to commend him. It puts me on my guard. We shall probably go to Washington at Christmas, whichever way the election turns. Come if you

can. Yours affectionately,

D. H."

On that evening when Dorothy Harcourt wrote this letter to her friend, Mr. and Mrs. George Allen in their library talked over the affairs of the

small world outside with more interest than it was their wont to give to current gossip.

"Doesn't it strike you, Constance, that Bradley is staying here rather longer than the mill business requires? We all signed the deed three weeks ago," Mr. Allen said, knocking the ashes from his small brier-wood pipe and preparing to refill it from an embroidered bag which showed signs of a long familiarity with sentiment. Mrs. Allen looked up from the pile of stockings, which reminded one of the many small feet whose pattering was done for the day, and smiled knowingly, as only a woman can who feels that she has been cleverer than her husband, whom she believes the cleverest of mortals.

"Yes, dear, Arthur Bradley has stayed much longer than his business required, and I should think by appearances will stay still longer. Can't you imagine why?"

"Well, no, I must confess that I have given it up. The mill is not to be run this year. At first I thought he wanted to buy that colt of Richard's, but he could have bought that long ago. Then I thought he wanted some shooting, but those two days when he went out with me he showed himself either a bad or indifferent sportsman.

He

couldn't make a shot. What does he do with him

self?"

"Walks and rows, I believe," said Mrs. George demurely.

"Well, he could walk in Boston or out of itto Cambridge or Chestnut Hill. He has half a dozen boats on the Charles, and better rowing."

"He evidently prefers the Tarratine rowing and walking too."

"Come, Constance, you are keeping something back. He isn't in love with Dorothy Harcourt?" "You are a man, and should be able to judge better than I."

"But you are a woman, and women always see those things by long projecting shadows."

"I should say in this case that the shadows were very substantial, and knowing Arthur from a boy, I am very certain that Tarratine has no other attraction than Miss Harcourt. He is haying a hard battle with himself. The politics stagger him."

"I should think so. Why, he is rampant on the subject. He does not call there?"

"No."

"How does he see her?"

"He walks, she walks. He rows, she rows."