overed that I had given her much more time than she needed
to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she
said:--

"I have no means of returning the heart. I must see him once more and I
will give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can see
him never again." She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish telling
her intention. Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?
Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thought
she was honest when she said she would take it to him.

"Dorothy," said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spoken
of--"

She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love," for she interrupted me.

"N-o, but surely he knows. And I--I think--at least I hope with all my
heart that--"

"I will take the heart to Sir John," said I, interrupting her angrily,
"and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. He
is a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic
terms I have at my command."

"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!" she exclaimed,
her eyes blazing with anger; "you--you asked for my confidence and I gave
it. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am
a fool indeed. Traitor!"

"My dear cousin," said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me
with bad faith, "your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood.
You may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That you
cannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannot
gainsay."

"No," said the girl, dejectedly, "I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil
is yet to come."

"You must do something," I continued. "You must take some decisive step
that will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if you
would save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you.
Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry words sprang from my
love for you and my fear for your future."

No girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than
Dorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.

My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had
aroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a
moment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear.

She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke i