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“Well, you know, Dorinda, that your Grandfather Page was married twice. Eugene was his first wife’s son, and your father the second wife’s. Eugene was a great deal older than your father–he was twenty-five when your father was born. He was always an odd man, even in his youth, and he had been much displeased at his father’s second marriage. But he was very fond of your father–whose mother, as you know, died at his birth–and they were good friends and comrades until just before your father went to college. They then quarrelled; the cause of the quarrel was insignificant; with anyone else than Eugene a reconciliation would soon have been effected. But Eugene never was friendly with your father from that time. I think he was jealous of old Grandfather’s affection; thought the old man loved your father best. And then, as I have said, he was very eccentric and stubborn. Well, your father went away to college and graduated, and then–we were married. Grandfather Page was very angry with him for marrying me. He wanted him to marry somebody else. He told him he would disinherit him if he married me. I did not know this until we were married. But Grandfather Page kept his word. He sent for a lawyer and had a new will made, leaving everything to Eugene. I think, nay, I am sure, that he would have relented in time, but he died the very next week; they found him dead in his bed one morning, so Eugene got everything; and that is all there is of the story, Dorinda.”

“And Uncle Eugene has been our enemy ever since?”

“Yes, ever since. So you see, Dorinda dear, that I cannot ask any favours of Uncle Eugene.”

“Yes, I see,” said Dorinda understandingly. To herself she added, “But I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

Dorinda thought hard and long for the next few days about the capital difficulties. She could think of only one thing to do and, despite old Admiral Page’s fighting blood, she shrank from doing it. But one night she found Leicester with his head down on his books and–no, it couldn’t be tears in his eyes, because Leicester laughed scornfully at the insinuation.

“I wouldn’t cry over it, Dorinda; I hope I’m more of a man than that. But I do really feel rather cut up because I’ve no chance of getting to college. And I hate the thought of going into a store. But I know I must for Mother’s sake, and I mean to pitch in and like it in spite of myself when the time comes. Only–only–“

And then Leicester got up and whistled and went to the window and stood with his back to Dorinda.

“That settles it,” said Dorinda out loud, as she brushed her hair before the glass that night. “I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” asked Jean from the bed.

“A desperate deed,” said Dorinda solemnly, and that was all she would say.

Next day Mrs. Page and Leicester went to town on business. In the afternoon Dorinda put on her best dress and hat and started out. Admiral Page’s fighting blood was glowing in her cheeks as she walked briskly up the hill road, but her heart beat in an odd fashion.

“I wonder if I am a little scared, ‘way down deep,” said Dorinda. “I believe I am. But I’m going to do it for all that, and the scareder I get the more I’ll do it.”

Oaklawn, where Uncle Eugene lived, was two miles away. It was a fine old place in beautiful grounds. But Dorinda did not quail before its splendours; nor did her heart fail her, even after she had rung the bell and had been shown by a maid into a very handsome parlour, but it still continued to beat in that queer fashion halfway up her throat.

Presently Uncle Eugene came in, a tall, black-eyed old man, with a fine head of silver hair that should have framed a ruddy, benevolent face, instead of Uncle Eugene’s hard-lipped, bushy-browed countenance.