"How dried up the river looks!" said Dotty.
"That is because the draymen have taken so much water out of it, little cousin. Haven't you seen them going by with barrels?"
"I shouldn't think the mayor'd 'low them to do it, Horace; for some time there won't be any river left."
"It's too bad to impose upon you," said Horace, laughing; "I was only joking." Dotty drew herself up with so much dignity that she nearly fell backward into the fire.
Good-natured Horace repented him of his trifling.
"Look down in the water, Dotty, and see if there is anything there that looks like an eel?"
Dotty did not move.
"Don't go to being vexed, chickie; you're as bright as anybody, after all."
Dotty smiled again.
"There," said Horace, "now we'll begin not to talk. We'll not say a word, and next thing we know, we'll catch that eel."
But he was mistaken. They knew several other things before they knew they had caught an eel. Horace knew it was growing late, and Dotty knew it made her sleepy to sit without speaking.
"Enough of this," cried Horace, breaking the spell of silence at last.
"You may talk now as much as you please. I've had my line out two hours.
They say 'in mud eel is;' but I don't believe it."
"Nor I either."
But at that very moment an eel bit. Horace drew him in with great satisfaction.
Dotty gave a little start of disgust, but had the presence of mind not to scream at sight of the ugly creature, because she had heard Horace say girls always did scream at eels.
"He will know now I _am_ as bright as anybody; as bright as a boy."
They started for home, well pleased with their evening's work.
"Did you notice," asked Dotty, "how I acted? I never screamed at that eel once."
"You're a lady, Dotty. I don't know but you might be trusted to go trouting. I never dared take Prudy, she is troubled so with palpitation of the tongue."
A proud moment this for Dotty. More discreet than Sister Prudy. Praise could no farther go!
An agreeable surprise awaited her at Aunt Maria's.
"Please accept with my love," said Grace, giving her a tiny box.
Dotty opened the box, and found, enveloped in rose-colored cotton, a beautiful gold ring, dotted with a pearl.
"I was the thief, Cousin Dotty. I hope you will excuse the liberty I took in going to your trunk."
"So it is my own oyster pearl," cried Dotty. "O, I never was so glad in my life."
CHAPTER XII.
"A POST OFFICE LETTER."
The "far-off" feeling rather increased upon Dotty. It seemed to her that she had never before reflected upon the immense distance which lay between her and home. The house might burn up before ever she got back. Prudy might have a lung fever, and mamma the "typo." It was possible for Zip to choke with a bone, and for a thousand other dreadful things to happen. And if Dotty were needed ever so much, she could not reach home without travelling all those miles.
Then, what if one of the conductors should prove to be a "_non,_" and she should never reach home at all, but, instead of that, should be found lying in little pieces under a railroad bridge?
Sister Prudy had never troubled her head with such fancies. The dear God would attend to her, she knew. He cared just as much about her one little self as if she had been the whole United States. But Dotty did not understand how this could be.
"I wish I hadn't come out West at all," thought she. "They're going to take me up to Indi'nap'lis; and there I'll have to stay, p'raps a week; for my father always has such long business! Dear, dear! and I don't know but everybody's dead!"
Just as she had drawn a curtain of gloom over her bright little face, and had buried both her dimples under it, and all her smiles, Uncle Henry came home from his office, looking very roguish.
"Well, little miss, and what do you suppose I've brought you from up town? Put on your thinking-cap, and tell me."
"Bananas? papaws? 'simmons? lemons? Dear me, what is it? Is it to eat or wear? And have you got it in your pocket?"
Uncle Henry, who had had his hand behind him, now held it out with a letter in it--a letter in a white envelope, directed, in clear, elegant writing, to "Miss Alice B. Parlin, care of H.S. Clifford, Esq., Quinn, Indiana."
There could be no mistake about it; the letter was intended for Dotty Dimple, and had travelled all the way by mail. But then that title, Miss, before the name! It was more than probable that the people all along the road had supposed it was intended for a young lady!
[Illustration: DOTTY'S FIRST POST-OFFICE LETTER. _Page 162_.]
When the wonderful thing was given her, her "first post-office letter,"
she clapped her hands for joy.
"Miss? Miss?" repeated she, as Horace re-read the direction; for she was not learned in the mysteries of writing, and could not read it for herself.
"O, yes. _Miss_, certainly! If it was to me, it would be Mr."
"_Master_, you mean," corrected Grace.
"No, Horace, you are not Mr. yet!" said Dotty, confidently; "you've never been married."
The next thing in order was the reading of the letter. Dotty tore it open with a trembling hand. I should like to see another letter that would make a child so happy as that one did! It was written by three different people, and all to the same little girl. Not a line to Uncle Henry or Aunt Maria, or Horace or Grace. All to Dotty's self, as if she were a personage of the first importance.
Mamma began it. How charming to see "My dear little daughter," traced so carefully in printed capitals! Then it was such a satisfaction to be informed, in the sweetest language, that this same "dear little daughter" was sadly missed. Dotty was so glad to be missed!
There was a present waiting for her at home. Mrs. Parlin was not willing to say what it was; but it had been sent by Aunt Madge from the city of New York, and must be something fine.
There were two whole pages of the clear, fair writing, signed at the close, "Your affectionate mother, Mary L. Parlin."
Just as if Dotty didn't know what mother's name was!