“He said more about my joining that party than anybody, and I am very sure he paid the bills.”

“Oh, Katy,” and Morris started as if he had been stung.  “I would rather have given Linwood than have you thus indebted to Wilford Cameron or any other man.”

“I could not well help it.  I did not mean any harm,” Katy said, timidly, for at first she had shrunk from the proposition, but Mrs. Woodhull seemed to think it right, urging it on until she had consented, and so she said to Morris, explaining how kind Mr. Cameron was, and how careful not to remind her of her indebtedness to him, attending to and anticipating every want as if she had been his sister.

“You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris.  He made me think of you a little, only he is prouder,” and Katy’s hand moved up Morris’ coat sleeve till it rested on his shoulder.

“Perhaps so,” Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment toward one who, it seemed to him, had done him some great wrong.

But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected.  He could not well help liking the bright little Katy—­some; and so, conquering all ungenerous feelings, he turned to her at last and said: 

“Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?”

Something in Morris’ voice startled Katy strangely; her hand came down from his shoulder, and for an instant there swept over her an emotion similar to what she had felt when with Wilford Cameron she rambled along the shores of Lake George, or sat alone with him on the deck of the steamer which carried them down Lake Champlain.  But Morris had always been her brother, and she did not guess how hard it was for him to keep from telling her then that she was more to him than a sister.  Had he told her, this story, perhaps, had not been written; but he kept silence, and so it is ours to record how Katy answered frankly at last:  “I guess I did like him a little.  I could not help it, Morris.  You could not, either, or any one.  I believe Mrs. Woodhull was more than half in love with him, and she is an old woman compared with me.  By the way, what did she mean by introducing me to him as the daughter of Judge Lennox?  I meant to have asked her, but forgot it afterward.  Was father ever a judge?”

“Not properly,” Morris replied.  “He was justice of the peace in Bloomfield, where you were born, and for one year held the office of side or associate judge, that’s all.  Few ever gave him that title, and I wonder at Mrs. Woodhull.  Possibly she fancied Mr. Cameron would think better of you if he supposed you the daughter of a judge.”

“That may be, though I do not believe he would, do you?”

Morris did not say what he thought, but quietly remarked, instead:  “I know those Camerons.”

“What!  Wilford!  You don’t know Wilford?” Katy almost screamed, and Morris replied:  “Not Wilford, no; but the mother and the sisters were last year in Paris, and I met them many times.”