late," she said at last. "They are all rather too well-grown to stand moving. But I will try a few of the smallest. What luck have my chicks had? Any fairies, Jackie?"

Jackie lifted a flushed face from its inspection of a tiny hole in the trunk of a fir-tree.

"No fairies yet, mother; but I think one lives in here, only she won't come out while I am watching."

Mrs. Merrithew smiled sympathetically. She heartily agreed with the writer (though she could not remember who it was) who said: "I always expect to find something wonderful, unheard-of, in a wood."

"In olden days," she said, "people believed that there were beautiful wood-spirits, called dryads, who had their homes in trees. They were larger than most fairies, and yet they were a kind of fairy."

"Please tell more about them, mother," said Marjorie, coming up with her hands full of yellow, speckled adder's-tongue.

"I know very little more, I am sorry to say," their mother answered, laughing. "Like Jackie with his fairies, I have always hoped to see one, but never have as yet."

"Are they good things?" Jackie asked, "or would they frighten little boys?"

"Oh, my dear, they were always said to be kind and beautiful, and rather timid, more apt to be frightened themselves than to frighten any one else. But remember, dears, mother did not say there were such things, but only that people used to think so."

"Please tell us a story about one, mother," Jack pleaded.

But Mrs. Merrithew shook her head.

"We will keep the story for some other time," she said. "Let us have a cooky now, and a little rest, before we go home."

This proposal was readily agreed to. They chose a comfortable spot where a little group of white birches gave them backs on which to lean, opened the precious bag, and were soon well occupied with its crisp and toothsome contents. Mrs. Merrithew, knowing well that little folk are generally troubled with a wonderful thirst, had also brought a cup and a bottle of lemonade. How doubly delicious things tasted in the clear, spicy air of the woods!

By the time Jack had disposed of his sixth cooky he felt ready for conversation.

"Mother," he said, "I wish you would tell us all about Dora."

"All about Dora, dearie? That would take a long time, I expect. But it would not take long to tell you all that I know about her. I have only seen her twice, and on one of those occasions she was a baby a month old, and the next time only two years,—and as she is now, I do not know her at all."

"But—oh, you know, mother—tell us about her father and mother, and her home, and everything like that. It makes her more interesting," urged Marjorie.

Mrs. Merrithew saw that she was to be beguiled into a story in any case, so she smiled and resigned herself to her fate.

"Well, my dears, I know a great many things about Dora's father, for he is my only brother, and we were together almost constantly until we were both grown up. Then your Uncle Archie, who had studied electrical engineering, went up to Montreal, and there secured a good position. He had only been there a short time when he met a very charming young lady" ("This sounds quite like a book-story," Marjorie here interposed) "by whom he was greatly attracted. She was partly French, her mother having been a lady of old French family. But her father was an English officer, of the strongest English feelings, so this charming young lady (whose name was Denise Allingham) combined the characteristics—at least all the best characteristics—of both races. Do you know what that means, Jackie?"

Jack nodded, thoughtfully.

"I think so, mother. I think it means that she—that young lady—had all the nicenesses of the French and all the goodnesses of the English."

"That is just it, my dear, and a very delicate distinction, too," cried his mother, clapping her hands in approval, while Jackie beamed with delight.

"Well, to continue: Miss Denise Allingham, when your Uncle Archie met her, was an orphan, and not well off. She was teaching in an English family, and not, I think, very happy in her work. She and your uncle had only known each other about a year when they were married."

"And lived happily ever after?" Marjorie asked.

Mrs. Merrithew considered a moment, then:

"Yes, I am sure I can say so," she answered. "They have had some business troubles, and a good deal of sickness, but still they have been happy through it all. And they have one dear little daughter, whom they love devotedly, and who is named 'Dora Denise,' after her mother and—who else?"

"You, mother, you," both children exclaimed.

"The chief trouble this happy trio has had," Mrs. Merrithew continued, "has been the delicate health of your uncle. For the last four years he has not been strong. Twice they have all three gone away for his health, and now the doctors have ordered him to try the delightful climate of British Columbia, and to spend at least a year there if it agrees with him. He needs all his wife's attention this time, and that, my dears, is why little Dora Denise Carman is coming to spend a year with her New Brunswick relations.

"And now, chicks, look at that slanting, golden light through the trees. That means tea-time, and homeward-bound!"

CHAPTER II.

It was a tired and homesick little girl that Mr. Merrithew helped out of the coach and led up the steps of his house, about a fortnight after our story opens. The journey from Montreal had been long and lonely, the parting from her parents hard, and the thought of meeting the unknown relatives had weighed upon her mind and helped to make her unusually subdued. But when the door of the Big Brick House (which had been named by the neighbours when it was the only brick house on the street, and the largest one in town) opened, and her aunt's motherly arms closed around her, while Marjorie's rosy, laughing face and Jackie's fair, cherubic one beamed on her in greeting, her spirits began to revive. The greeting was so warm and kind, and the joy at her coming so genuine, that her fatigue seemed turned, as by magic, to a pleasant restfulness, and her homesickness was lost in this bright home atmosphere.

Mrs. Merrithew took the little newcomer to her room, had her trunks settled conveniently, and then left her to prepare for the late tea which was waiting for them all. When Dora was ready, she sat down in the little armchair that stood near a table piled with books, and looked about her contentedly.

There was an air of solid comfort and cosiness about this house that rested her. This room—which her aunt had told her was just opposite Marjorie's—was all furnished in the softest shades of brown and blue, her favourite colours. The carpet was brown, with a very small spray of blue here and there; the wallpaper was lighter, almost creamy, brown, with a dainty harebell pattern, and the curtains had a rich brown background with various Persian stripes, in which blue and cream and gold predominated. The bed, to her great delight, had a top-piece, and a canopy of blue-flowered chintz, and the little dressing-table was draped to match it. Just over the side of the bed was a book-shelf, quite empty, waiting for her favourite books. While she sat and looked about in admiration, the door was pushed gently open, and a plump maltese kitten came in, gazed at her doubtfully a moment, and then