"Cousin," she lisped, "I fear you are something of a macaroni."

Instantly a fresh volley of laughter rattled from the landing--such
clear, hearty laughter that it infected me, spite my chagrin.

"He's a good fellow, our cousin Ormond!" came a fresh young voice from
above.

"He shall be one of us!" cried another; and I thought to catch a glimpse
of a flowered petticoat whisked from the gallery's edge.

I looked at my cousin Dorothy Varick; she stood at gaze, laughter in her
eyes, but the mouth demure.

"Cousin Dorothy," said I, "I believe I am a good fellow, even though
ragged and respectable. If these qualities be not bars to your society,
give me your hand in fellowship, for upon my soul I am nigh sick for a
welcome from somebody in this unfriendly land."

Still at gaze, she slowly raised her arm and held out to me a fresh,
sun-tanned hand; and I had meant to press it, but a sudden shyness
scotched me, and, as the soft fingers rested in my palm, I raised them
and touched them with my lips in silent respect.

"You have pretty manners," she said, looking at her hand, but not
withdrawing it from where it rested. Then, of an impulse, her fingers
closed on mine firmly, and she looked me straight in the eye.

"You are a good comrade; welcome to Varicks', cousin Ormond!"