her mind
not been fixed upon its one end, which was above all such petty
details of existence, might well have looked about her. No such
dainty maiden bower was there in the whole village as this. Madelon's
own chamber, carpetless and freezing cold, with its sparse furniture
and scanty sweep of white curtains across the furred windows which
filled the room with the blue-white light of frost, was desolation to
it.

A great fire blazed on Dorothy Fair's chamber hearth. The red glow of
it was over the whole room, and the frost on the windows was melting.
Curtains of a soft blue-and-white stuff, said to have been brought
from overseas, hung at Dorothy's windows and between the high posts
of her bed. She had also her little rocking-chair and footstool
frilled and cushioned with it. There was a fine white matting on her
floor, and a thick rug with a basket of flowers wrought on it beside
her bed. The high white panel-work around Dorothy's mantel was carved
with curving garlands and festoons of ribbon and flowers, and on the
shelf stood tall china vases and bright candlesticks. Dorothy's
dressing-table had a petticoat of finest dimity, trimmed with tiny
tassels. Above it hung her fine oval mirror, in a carved gilt frame.
Upon the table were scattered silver and ivory things and glass
bottles, the like of which Madelon had never seen. The room was full
of that mingled perfume of roses and lavender which was always about
Dorothy herself.

The counterpane on Dorothy's bed was all white and blue, and quilted
in a curious fashion, and her pillows were edged with lace. In the
midst of this white-and-blue nest, her slender little body half
buried in her great feather-bed, her lovely yellow locks spreading
over her pillow, lay Dorothy Fair when Madelon entered. She half
raised herself, and stared at her with blue, dilated eyes, and shrank
back with a little whimper of terror when she came impetuously to her
bedside.

"You don't believe it," Madelon said, with no preface.

Dorothy stared at her, trembling. "You mean--"

"I mean you don't believe he killed him! You don't believe Burr
Gordon killed his cousin Lot!"

Dorothy sank weakly back on her pillows. Great tears welled up in her
blue eyes and rolled down her soft cheeks. "They _saw_ him there,"
she sobbed out, "and they found his knife. Oh, I didn't think he was
so wicked!"

Madelon caught her by one slender arm hard, as if she would have
shaken her. "_You_ believe it!"