“He would not come,” answered Betty simply; “he said he was traveling westward, and I thought he seemed anxious to be off.”

“But we pressed him, Aunt Euphemia,” put in Moppet, “and I told him my pony could carry double.  And I do not know how we will return his cape; do you?”

“You must come indoors at once and get dry clothing,” said her aunt, “and I will tell Chloe to make you a hot posset lest you get a chill; run quickly, Moppet, and do not stand a moment longer in those wet clothes.  Now, Betty,” as the child disappeared inside, “have you any idea who this stranger can be, or whence he came?”

“I have not,” said Betty, blushing rosy red (though she could not have told why) under her aunt’s clone scrutiny.

“What did he look like?” questioned Miss Euphemia.

“Like a young man of spirit,” said Betty, mischief getting the better of her, “and he had a soldierly air to boot and spoke with command.”

“I trust with all due respect as well,” said Miss Euphemia gravely.

“Truly, he both spoke and behaved as a gentleman should.”

“Do you think it could be Oliver’s friend, young Otis from Boston?” said Miss Euphemia.  “He was to arrive in these parts this week.”

“It may be he,” said Betty, “ask Pamela, she has met him;” and as she turned to enter she almost fell into the arms of a tall, slender girl who was hurrying forth to meet her.

At first glance there was enough of likeness between the girls to say that they might be sisters, but the next made the resemblance less, and their dissimilarity of expression and coloring increased with acquaintance.  Both had the same slender, graceful figure, but while Betty was of medium height, Pamela was distinctly taller than her sister, and her pretty head was covered with golden hair, while Betty’s luxuriant locks were that peculiar shade which is neither auburn nor golden, but a combination of both, and her eyes were hazel-gray, with long lashes much darker than her hair.  Both girls wore their hair piled on top of the head, as was the fashion of the time, and both were guiltless of powder, but Pamela’s rebellious waves were trained to lie as close as she could make them, while Betty’s would crop out into little dainty saucy curls over her forehead and down the nape of her slender neck in a most bewildering fashion.  Their complexions, like Miss Moppet’s, were exquisitely satin-like in texture, but there was no break in Pamela’s smooth cheeks, whereas Betty’s dimples lurked not only around her willful mouth, but perched high in her right cheek, and you found yourself unconsciously watching to see them come and go at the tricksy maid’s changing will.  There was but little more than a year’s difference in their ages, yet Betty seemed almost a child beside Pamela’s gracious stateliness.

“What is it all about?” asked the bewildered Pamela, catching hold of Betty.  “Moppet dashes into the kitchen, damp and moist, and says she has been at the bottom of the pond, and orders hot posset, and you, Betty, have an air of fright”—­