hing
and paling before him.

"Nothing. I have not thought--it is a question for others to
decide--others who know what is right better than I. I appreciate your
consideration," she suddenly burst out, "and should be glad to tell you
at this moment what to expect. But--give me a little time--let me see
you later--in the morning, Mr. Sinclair, after we are all somewhat
rested, and when I can see you quite alone."

Dorothy rose.

"Shall I go?" she asked.

Sinclair advanced, and with quiet protest touched her on the shoulder.
Quietly she sank back into her seat.

"I want to say a half-dozen words to you, Miss Camerden. Gilbertine will
pardon us; it is about matters which must be settled to-night. There are
decisions to arrive at and arrangements to be made. Mrs. Armstrong has
instructed me to question you in regard to these, as the one best
acquainted with Mrs. Lansing's affairs and general tastes. We will not
trouble Gilbertine. She has her own decisions to reach. Dear, will you
let me make you comfortable in the conservatory while I talk for five
minutes with Dorothy?"

He said she met this question with a look so blank and uncomprehending
that he just lifted her and carried her in among the palms.

"I must speak to Dorothy," he pleaded, placing her in the chair where he
had often seen her sit of her own accord. "Be a good girl; I will not
keep you here long."

"But why cannot I go to my room? I do not understand--I am
frightened--what have you to say to Dorothy you cannot say to me?"

She seemed so excited that for a minute, just a minute, he faltered in
his purpose. Then he took her gravely by the hand.

"I have told you," said he. Then he kissed her softly on the forehead.
"Be quiet, dear, and rest. See, here are roses!"

He plucked and flung a handful into her lap. Then he crossed back to the
library and shut the conservatory door behind him. I am not surprised
that Gilbertine wondered at her peremptory bridegroom.

When Sinclair re-entered the library, he found Dorothy standing with her
hand on the knob of the door leading into the hall. Her head was bent
thoughtfully forward, as though she were inwardly debating whether to
stand her ground or fly. Sinclair gave her no further opportunity for
hesitation. Advancing rapidly, he laid his hand gently on hers, and with
a gravity which must have impressed her, quietly remarked:

"I must ask you to stay and hear what I have to say. I wished to spare
Gilbert