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"Would I not tell my dream, as nice young men in the Bible always did?"

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

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"No," he said, but Ned Ferry had lately restored to him, by proxy, some lost letters, with an invitation to come and see him.

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

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