Not till he reached its deepest recesses, however, did he find Dora; and then he stood still to look at her, himself unseen.  But what a white, dumb look of anguish upon the sweet face! what clouds, heavy with coming showers, upon the brow! what rainy lights in the upturned eyes! what a resistless sorrow in the downward curve of the lips, ordinarily so firm and cheerful!  Even the shapely hands, tightly folded, and firmly set upon the knee, told their story,—­even the rigid lines and constrained attitude of the figure.  Mr. Burroughs’s first impulse was artistic; and he longed to be a sculptor, that he might model an immortal statue of Silent Grief.  The second was human; and he longed to comfort a sorrow at whose cause he already guessed, and yet guessed but half.  The third was less creditable, but perhaps as probable, in a man of Mr. Burroughs’s temperament and education; for it was to study and dissect this new phase of the young girl’s character.  He quietly approached, and seated himself beside her with a commonplace remark,—­

“A very pretty bit of scenery, Dora.”

“Yes,” replied she, struggling to resume her usual demeanor.

“I am afraid, however, it does not satisfy your eye, accustomed to the breadth of prairie views.  Confess that you are a little weary of it and us, and longing for home.”

“I shall probably set out for home to-morrow,” said Dora, turning away her head, and playing idly with the grass beside her.

“I thought you were homesick.  I am sorry we have so ill succeeded in contenting you.”

“Oh, don’t think that!  I have been so happy here these two weeks!  That is the very reason I ought to go.”

“How is that?  I don’t see the argument.”

“Because this is not my home, or the way I am to live, or these the people I am to live with; and the sooner I am away, the better.”

She did not see all the meaning of her words, poor child! but her companion did, and smiled merrily to himself as he said,—­

“You mean, we do not come up to your standard, and you cannot waste more time upon us; don’t you?”

Dora turned and looked at him, her suspicions roused by a mocking ring beneath the affected humility of his tone; and, looking, she caught the covert smile not yet faded from his eyes.

“It is not kind, Mr. Burroughs, to laugh at me, or to try to confuse me in this way,” said she steadily.  “No doubt, you know what I mean; and why do you wish to force me into saying, that the more I see of the life and thoughts and manners of such people as Mrs. Legrange and you, and even my own little Sunshine, now so far away from me, the less fit I feel to associate with them?  And, just because it is so pleasant to me, I feel that I ought to go back at once to the home and the duties and the people where I belong.  I am but a poor country-girl, sir, hardly taught in any thing except the love of God, and the wish to do something before I die to make my fellow-creatures a little happier or more comfortable than I find them.  Let me go to my work, and out of it I will make my life.”