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As a sign of devotion, he tried to step on Dorothy's foot under the table, after a pleasing habit of their courtship in the New York boarding-house, but he succeeded only in drawing an unconscious "ouch" and a vivid blush from Miss St. Clair, by which he impressed Dorothy more deeply than he could have hoped to do otherwise. "Have you come far, Miss St. Clair?" asked Dorothy, conventionally.
"Nothing," said Beatrice, "nothing at all. Who in the world is Richard Blake?" "I don't know. Don't you, Frances?" Frances shook her head. "But 'The Quiver' is a magazine. I've seen a copy once or twice." "Then," said Dorothy, promptly, "Richard Blake must be the editor, or one of them." "Well, did we say anything about him in the December number?" pursued Beatrice.
So, with pleasant expectations, the party started off, Bert and Hal acting as guides, and leading the way. "If you feel like climbing down the rocks here we can walk all along the edge," said Hal. "But be careful!" he cautioned, "the rocks are awfully slippery. Dorothy will have to go on ahead down the road with the donkeys, and we can meet her at the Point."
That afternoon Dorothy had gone forth as usual, but she said to herself that he would not come; and half-way down the lane she ceased peering into the green distances for him, and sat herself down on a stone, and leaned back against the trunk of a young maple, and shut her eyes wearily, and told herself in a sort of sad penitence that she would look no more for him, for he would not come.
"That girl, and the one-legged man, seem to be mortals from the outside world," said Dorothy. "The man isn't one-legged," corrected Betsy; "he has one wooden leg." "It's almost as bad," declared Dorothy, watching Cap'n Bill stump around. "They are three mortal adventurers," said Ozma, "and they seem worthy and honest.
"What is it Dorothy?" asked the teacher, although she no doubt guessed what the girl wished to say. "I just want to state that Sarah did not intend to blame anyone for her accident she had only cried that it was our fault when she was suffering so, and did not mean that those about her should have taken it up as they did.
"Shoulder's the worst. I rammed it through the board when we started out." He opened his shirt at the throat and bared his shoulder, and Dorothy gasped as much at the size and power of the muscles displayed, as at the extent and severity of the man's injuries.
And then there was gentle Dorothy, wife of Governor Bradford, who had fallen overboard from the Mayflower in Provincetown harbour while her husband was coasting along the bleak shore in search of a place for a home. The first Thanksgiving took place nearly three hundred years ago.
The name, Dorothy, shone in rustic letters just above the water edge. "And you called it Dorothy," Bert remarked. "Yes, she's the liveliest girl I know, and a good friend of mine all summer," said Hal. "There are some boys down the avenue, but they don't know as much about good times as Dorothy does. Why, she can swim, row, paddle, climb trees, and goes in for almost any sport that's on.
There at my side was Dorothy, even taller in her paleness, with sorrow and agitation in her blue eyes. "Richard, I have heard all. I listened. Are you going away without a word for me?" Her breath came fast, and mine, as she laid a hand upon my arm. "Richard, I do not care whether you are poor. What am I saying?" she cried wildly. "Am I false to my own father? Richard, what have you done?"
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