THE RED SQUIRREL


One brilliant night, Mr. Falkirk pacing up and down the
piazza, Wych Hazel came and joined him; clasping both hands on
his arm.

'Mr. Falkirk,' she said softly, 'when are we going to
Chickaree?'

'I have no information, Miss Hazel.'

'Then I can tell you, sir. We take the "owl" stage day after
to-morrow morning,--and we tell _nobody_ of our intention.' And
Wych Hazel's finger made an impressive little dent in Mr.
Falkirk's arm.

'Why that precaution?' he inquired.

'Pity to break up the party, sir,--they seem to be enjoying
themselves,'--And a soft laugh of mischief and fun rang out
into the moonlight.

'Is this arrangement expected to be carried into effect?'

'Certainly, sir. If my guardian approves,' said Miss Hazel,
submissively.

'What's become of her other guardian?' said an old lady,