Dorothy's Tour

“Aunty, we are so seldom by ourselves, and Ruth and Alfy have gone out. I want to have a long talk with you.”

Dorothy lay resting, her injured foot supported, while her aunt sat beside her, caressingly stroking her hair and forehead.

First, the young girl spoke of Mr. Dauntrey and of her experience of that day. The humorous aspect of the circumstances appealed alike to both. Then the inheritance was discussed, and Aunt Betty deplored again the unfortunate loss of the locket and the lacking “insurmountable requirements,” in the way of some missing papers. Concerning the latter, Aunt Betty had some hopes that among her accumulated correspondence and documents at Bellevieu, there might be found helpful data bearing on the subject.

“Unless some good fortune is happily vouchsafed us,” deplored Aunt Betty sorrowfully, “I greatly fear that Bellevieu will be lost.”

“Mr. Van Zandt wrote, however,” encouraged Dorothy, “that it would be well worth while for us to go to England, and that personally presenting myself might ‘achieve results otherwise unattainable.’ You see, I have remembered his words.”

“I am determined upon that,” responded Aunt Betty, “and I am arranging that we shall go within a month after we get back east. I have a little surprise for you, too. Molly Breckenridge is going also. The judge has arranged for her expenses.”

The reader, who would wish to still further follow the fortunes of our heroine will find in “Dorothy in England,” a volume of startling interest and sweet sentiment.

Dorothy was most appreciative of her aunt’s thoughtfulness, and now she unburdened her mind of her secret. She told her of her strong regard for Jim, of his expressed love for her, and of her own inability to just exactly determine if her feelings were the equivalent of his. She wished for Jim every happiness, and she shared in his ambitions. They had had a difference, and she was most unhappy, and yet there was an intangible something that restrained her from seeking a reconciliation.

The good, motherly woman, who was her confessor, knew perhaps better than the girl herself, the strength of her regard for Jim, and knew that the heart’s promptings are seldom influenced. With this wisdom for a guide, she counselled wisely and satisfyingly. Time, and right doing, would remedy and set square all that was untoward.

Folded in each other’s arms in harmony of feeling, they were suddenly broken in upon by Alfy.

“What do you think,” she cried. “You told me to get out your light traveling dress. You had not worn it since that day of the fire in New York, and what do you think!” she excitedly repeated, “in the fold of the skirt I found this!” and she held forth the long missing locket.

So it unquestionably was. The gown had been put away, and in the folds of the skirt had been caught, and so long retained, the locket.

A word more and our story ends. The journey east was uneventful. At Baltimore, Aunt Betty and the girls said good-bye to Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Dauntrey. Ruth was to visit a day at Bellevieu and then go on with Alfy to New York.

THE END