There was nothing more to be said; and while Fleda in triumph
put on an apron and made her preparations, Cynthy on her part,
and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove;
which, being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth,
even top, afforded, in Fleda's opinion, the very best possible
field for muffins to come to their perfection. Now Fleda cared
little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her
delight was, by the help of her own skill and the stove-top,
to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest
pleasure in them was over when they were baked.

A little while had passed. Mr. Ringgan was still busy with his
newspaper, Miss Cynthia Gall going in and out on various
errands, Fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins
and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and Mr.
Ringgan's "Come in!" was followed by the entrance of two
strangers, young, welldressed, and comely. They wore the usual
badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left
outside.

The old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of
enlightening.

"I fear you do not remember me, Mr. Ringgan," said the
foremost of the two, coming up to him, —"my name is Rossitur —
Charlton Rossitur — a cousin of your little granddaughter. I
have only" —

"O, I know you now!" said Mr. Ringgan, rising and grasping his
hand heartily, — "you are very welcome, Sir. How do you do? I