“Do you really think Tavia is in Buffalo?” asked Dorothy, endeavoring to bring her cousin down to a common-sense viewpoint.

“Sure of it. But, say, Doro. I’ll tell you what! I’ll just take a fly in the Fire Bird to-morrow morning, and find out for you for sure. That will be better than the special delivery boy on his bicycle that never moves. I’ll be back by lunch time.”

“Oh, that will be splendid!” cried Dorothy, giving her cousin’s arm a tight squeeze. “You see I could not trust another letter, and I’m so anxious to know. Oh, Nat, you are the very best cousin—”

“Not so bad,” interrupted Nat, “when it comes to special messengers. But, little cousin, you can depend on me. I won’t let any one hold up the automobile mail coach.”

CHAPTER XIII LITTLE URANIA

LITTLE URANIA

The soft moonlight was now peeping through the screen of maple leaves that arched the old stone bridge, as the shifting shadows of early evening settled down to quiet nightfall. Dorothy and her cousin did not at once turn their steps toward the Cedars; instead they sat there on the bridge, enjoying the tranquil summer eve, and talking of what might happen when all their schooldays would be over and the long “vacation” of the grown-up world would be theirs to plan for, and theirs to shape into the rolling ball of destiny.

Nat declared he would be a physician, as that particular profession had ever been to him the greatest and noblest—to relieve human suffering. Dorothy talked of staying home with her brothers and father. They would need her, she said, and it would not be fair to let Aunt Winnie do so much for them.

“But I say, Dorothy,” broke in Nat. “This moonlight is all right, isn’t it?”

Dorothy laughed at his attempt at sentimentality. “It is delightful,” she replied, “if that is what you mean.”

“Yes, that’s it—delightful. For real, home-made sentiment apply to Nat White. By the pound or barrel. Accept no substitute. Good thing I did not decide to be a writer, eh? The elements represent to me so many kinds of chemical bodies, put where they belong and each one expected to do its little part in keeping things going. Now, I know fellows who write about the moon’s face and the sun’s effulgence, just as if the poor old sun or moon had anything to do with the lighting-up process. I never speculate on things beyond my reach. That 

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