In the, doorway, under the swinging branch of the tall sweetbrier, suddenly appeared Kitty, her brown face becoming flushed, and the buttons of her under-sleeves not yet adjusted.

“Tea is ready; will you please to walk in, Mr. Burroughs?” said she:  and the guest followed, well pleased, to the wide, cool kitchen, with its white, scoured floor, its vine-shaded windows and open door giving a view of broad meadow-lands, with a brook curling crisply through them, and a dark pine-wood beyond.  In the centre stood the neat tea-table, with its country dainties of rich cream, yellow butter, custards, ripe peaches sliced and served with sugar, buttermilk-biscuit, and the fresh sponge-cake, on which Kitty justly prided herself.

“You see we are plain country-folks, and eat in the kitchen, Mr. Burroughs,” said she, with a little laugh, as they seated themselves.

“Is this room called a kitchen?  You amuse yourself by jesting with my ignorance,” said Mr. Burroughs, looking about him with affected simplicity.  “If ever I should live here, I would call this the refreshing-room; for I can imagine nothing more soothing to eyes weary of a summer sun than these vine-covered windows, and the cool greens of that meadow and the pine-forest beyond.”

Kitty smiled a little vaguely, half inclined to insist upon the kitchen-side of the question; when Karl asked, in a disappointed tone,—­

“Where is Dora?  Isn’t she coming?”

“Not yet.  Molly waked up, and Dora is giving her some supper.  She said she would come as soon as she had done.  You didn’t know, Mr. Burroughs, that Dora has an adopted child, did you?”

“No, indeed.  She is young to undertake such responsibility,” said Mr. Burroughs a little curiously.

“This is a little foreigner too, that Dora picked up in the road.  No one knows who she may be, or what dreadful people may come after her any day.  Dora is so queer!”

“Will you have a biscuit, Kitty?  Mr. Burroughs, let me give you some of this peach?  We shall be sorry to leave our peach-orchard behind in going to the West.  I suppose, however, one can soon be started there.”

And Karl, determined not to allow Kitty the chance of making any of her spiteful little speeches about Dora in presence of the visitor, kept the conversation upon purely impersonal topics, until they rose from table, and the two gentlemen strolled out upon the porch at the western door; while Kitty ran up to call Dora, whom she found sitting beside the bed, with Sunshine’s head lying upon her arm.

“Isn’t she asleep?” whispered Kitty.

The child half opened her eyes, and murmured drowsily,—­

“I want to ride on the elephant.  It’s my little wife.”

“What did she say, Dora?”

“Hush!  She is out of her head, I think.  She has been saying I was her little wife,” whispered Dora.

“Well, that’s English, anyway,” replied Kitty, staring at the child.  “What do you suppose she is?”