“Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy,” returned Aunt Dorothy.  “Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always thinking—­the ladies, the ladies.”

“Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?” my second self responded in a gallant style of which I was really proud.  “She who has caused so much of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman’s mind cannot be better employed than—­”

“Malcolm, you are incorrigible.  But it is well for a gentleman to keep in practice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise on.”

“They like it, even if it be only practice, don’t they?” said Dorothy, full of the spirit of mischief.

“I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon,” retorted Aunt Dorothy with a toss of her head.  “I surely don’t value your practice, as you call it, one little farthing’s worth.”

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit than Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.

“I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford.”

“Oh!” replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book.  “I have been reading Sir Philip’s account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy.  Do you remember the cause of her death?”

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to admit that he did not remember the cause of Mary’s death.

“You did not read the book with attention,” replied Lady Crawford.  “Sir Philip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty.”

“That disease will never depopulate England,” was the answer that came from my garments, much to my chagrin.

“Sir Malcolm,” exclaimed the old lady, “I never before heard so ungallant a speech from your lips.”—­“And,” thought I, “she never will hear its like from me.”

“Modesty,” continued Lady Crawford, “may not be valued so highly by young women nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but—­”

“I am sure it is not,” interrupted Dorothy.

“But,” continued Lady Crawford, “the young women of England are modest and seemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in ungallant jest.”

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.

“Do you not,” said Lady Crawford, “consider Dorothy and Madge to be modest, well-behaved maidens?”

“Madge!  Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be.  She is a saint, but as to Dorothy—­well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her than death from modesty.  I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does not kill.  Dorothy has it mildly,” then under her breath, “if at all.”

The girl’s sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment it caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.

“You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy,” retorted Lady Crawford.  “She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply.”