hullabaloo," remarked the driver, whom Dorman had been told, at the
depot twenty miles back, he must call his Uncle Richard.

"I love storms," came cheerfully from the rear seat--but the voice was
not the prim voice of "auntie." "Do you have thunder and lightning out
here, Dick?"

"We do," assented Dick. "We don't ship it from the East in refrigerator
cars, either. It grows wild."

The cheerful voice was heard to giggle.

"Richard," came in tired, reproachful accents from a third voice behind
him, "you were reared in the East. I trust you have not formed the
pernicious habit of speaking slightingly of your birthplace."

That, Dick knew, was his mother. She had not changed appreciably since
she had nagged him through his teens. Not having seen her since, he was
certainly in a position to judge.

"Trix asked about the lightning," he said placatingly, just as he was
accustomed to do, during the nagging period. "I was telling her."

"Beatrice has a naturally inquiring mind," said the tired voice, laying
reproving stress upon the name.

"Are you afraid of lightning, Sir Redmond?" asked the cheerful
girl-voice.

Sir Redmond twisted his neck to smile back at her. "No, so long as it