“Yes:  I felt real mad all the morning about it, and was pretty grumpy to Windsor; for I thought he might as well have sent a week ago.  But, by George!  I’d like to see the feller that ’ud be grumpy to her.”

“Well, Dora,” Kitty was saying at the same moment, “I’m glad you’ve got home; for the first thing isn’t ready for supper, and I’ve just done ironing.  That Hit went off home an hour ago; said her head ached, and she’d got to get the men’s supper.  I do declare, I’d like to shake that woman till her teeth rattled; and I believe I’ll do it some day!”

“How beautifully the clothes look, Kitty!  I think they bleach even whiter here than they used to in the old drying yard.  But I am sorry you ironed that white waist of mine:  I was going to do it myself.  Now, Sunshine, come and tell Aunt Kitty about the woodchuck and her baby that we saw; and how we caught little chucky, as you called him; and all the rest.”

“Dear me!  I can’t stop.  Well, come and sit in my lap, Dolly, and tell if you want to.  Dora, do sit and rest a minute:  you look all tired out.”

“Oh, no! but Karl is, I am afraid.  He walked away out behind the wheat-lot this afternoon to see to setting some traps for the poor little things that come to eat it.  I never saw such a boy when there is any thing to be done.  He goes right at it, no matter what lies between.”

“You’re right there, Dora; and he always was so from a child.  Well, Dolly, what’s the story?”

“Don’t call me Dolly, please,” said the little girl coaxingly.

“Well, Dolce, then,” said Kitty, smiling with renewed good-nature.  And while Sunshine, all unconsciously, completed by her prattle the cure that Dora had begun, the latter quietly and rapidly finished the preparations for tea.

As for Sunshine, never did a child so well deserve her name.  In the house or on the prairie, running with Argus, walking demurely beside Karl, or riding behind Dora upon the stout little pony reserved for the use of the young mistress of the place, it was always as a gleam of veritable sunshine that she came; and no heart so dark, or temper so gloomy, as to resist her sweet influence.  Constant exercise and fresh air, proper food, and the rigid sanitary laws established by Dora, had brought to the child’s cheek a richer bloom than it had ever known before; while her blue eyes seemed two sparkling fountains of joy, and a vivid life danced and glittered even among her sunny curls.  Lithe and straight, and strong of limb too, grew our slender little Cerito; and, although every motion was still one of grace, it was now the assured grace of strength, instead of that of fragility.  She danced too, but it was with the west wind, who, rough companion that he was, whirled her round and round in his strong arms, or tossed her hair in a bright cloud across her face; while he snatched her hat, and sent it spinning into the prairie; or kissed the laugh from her lips, and carried it away to the