"It was peeping out at that window I saw you first, Dora; and I
thought it must be the sunrise," whispered Tom Burroughs to the lady
he escorted.
"I am sorry I should have so put you out of countenance. Perhaps
that is the reason you never have seen straight since,--so far as I
am concerned at least," replied she.
"One does not care to look straight at the sun: it is sufficient to
bask in its light," whispered the lover.
"Oh! very well, if that is what you want--Here, Sunshine! Cousin Tom
wants you."
The little girl came bounding toward them; and Dora, with a wicked
little laugh, slipped away, and up the stairs, to the room that had
been Kitty's, now appropriated to the use of the two young girls.
Soon the happy party assembled again in the kitchen, where stood a
tea-table judiciously combining the generous breadth of Mrs.
Ginniss's ideas with the more elegant and subdued tastes inculcated
upon Susan by a long period of service with her present mistress.
"Mind you tell 'em there's more beyant, on'y you wouldn't set it on
all to wonst," whispered the Irish woman hoarsely, as she rushed
into the scullery, leaving Susan to receive the guests just entering
the kitchen.
"Mrs. Ginniss thought we should arrive with appetites, I suspect,"
said the hostess, laughing a little apologetically as they seated
themselves; and Susan did not think it best to deliver her message.
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