a startled movement.

"I also knew," I continued, "that at other times when you rode out upon
Dolcy you had not seen him."

"How did you know?" she asked, with quick-coming breath.

"By your ill-humor," I answered.

"I knew it was so. I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing. I
could almost see father and Madge and you--even the servants--reading the
wickedness written upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it from
nobody." Tears were very near the girl's eyes.

"We cannot help thinking that our guilty consciences, through which we see
so plainly our own evil, are transparent to all the world. In that fact
lies an evil-doer's greatest danger," said I, preacher fashion; "but you
need have no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected by no one
save me."

A deep sigh of relief rose from the girl's heaving breast.

"Well," she began, "I will tell you all about it, and I am only too glad
to do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience. But I would not
be rid of it for all the kingdoms of the earth."

"A moment since you told me that your conduct was good and pure and
sacred, and now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience. Does one
grieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which is good and pure and sacred?"

"I cannot answer your question," she replied. "I am no priest. But this I
know: I have done no evil, and my conscience nevertheless is sore. Solve
me the riddle, Malcolm, if you can."

"I cannot solve your riddle, Dorothy," I replied; "but I feel sure it will
be far safer for each of us if you will tell me all that happens
hereafter."

"I am sure you are right," she responded; "but some secrets are so
delicious that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe, however,
your advice is good, and I will tell you all that has happened, though I
cannot look you in the face while doing it." She hesitated a moment, and
her face was red with tell-tale blushes. She continued, "I have acted most
unmaidenly."

"Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly," said I.

"I thank you," she said, interrupting my sentence. It probably was well
that she did so, for I was about to add, "To act womanly often means to
get yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble as
possible." Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me.

"Well," said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, "after we saw--saw
him at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of three
days--"