Sometimes Dora, upon Max, her little Indian pony, would accompany him a few miles, or as far as his road led toward the scene of her own labors; but no Spartan dame or Roman matron could more sternly have resisted the young man’s frequent entreaties to be allowed to accompany her farther than the point at which their roads diverged.

“No, sir!  You to your work, and I to mine.  Suppose I were to neglect the farm, and come to sit in Dr. Gershom’s office all day,” argued the fair young moralist, but found herself rather disconcerted by her pupil’s gleeful laugh, as he replied,—­

“Good, good!  Try it once, do; and let me see if it would be so very bad.  I think I could forgive you.”

“Suppose, then, instead of arguing any more with you, I jump Max over this brook, and leave you where you are?” said Dora, a little vexed; and, suiting the action to the word, she was off before her cousin could remonstrate.

In the evening of the day when this little scene occurred, Karl, upon his return home, found Dora seated with Sunshine upon the grass under the great chestnut-tree.

“A letter for you, you horrid tyrant!” said he, taking one from his pocket, and tossing it into her lap.

“She isn’t; and you are a naughty old Karlo to say such names!” cried Sunshine, flashing her blue eyes indignantly upon the laughing face of the young man.

“Such names as what, Dolce?” asked he, jumping from his horse, and trying to catch the child, who evaded his grasp, and replied with dignity,—­

“It isn’t any consequence, Karlo.  She isn’t it, and you know she isn’t.”

“But it is of consequence; for I don’t know what it is she isn’t.  Please tell me, mousey; won’t you?”

“She isn’t a tireout, you know she isn’t, then.  You sha’n’t laugh!  Dora, shall Karlo laugh at me? shall he?”

“No, dear, he won’t; but you mustn’t be a cross little girl if he does.  Now run to the house, and tell Aunt Kitty that Karlo has come home, and see if tea is ready.”

The child put up her lips for a kiss, bestowed a glance of dignified severity upon the offender, and walked towards the house with measured steps for a little distance; then, with the frolicsome caprice of a kitten, made a little caper in the air, and danced on, singing, in her clear, sweet voice,—­“Dear, dear, what can the matter be?  Karlo can’t stay from here!”

“Funny child!” exclaimed the object of the stave.  “A true little woman, with her loves and spites.  Who is the letter from, Dolo?”

“Mr. Brown,” said Dora, slowly folding it, and rising from her seat under the tree to return to the house.

“Aha!  Seems to me the parson is not so attentive as he used to be.  Have you and he fallen out?”

“No, indeed! we are the best of friends; and, in proof of it, this letter is to say he is coming to make a little visit at Outpost, if convenient to us.”

“And is it convenient?” asked Karl somewhat curtly.