“No, no, child; no, no.  But I cannot argue with you.  Perhaps you are right,” said Aunt Dorothy.

“Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak concerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing.  God put it there, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act.”

“No, no, my sweet child,” returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly.  “No, no, you are not immodest.  You are worth a thousand weak fools such as I was at your age.”

Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her life.  Dorothy’s words opened her aunt’s eyes to the fact that the girl whom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same wretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so many years.  From that hour she was Dorothy’s ally.

“Good night, Malcolm,” said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand.  I kissed it tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady’s cheek and said:—­

“I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy.”

“I thank you, Malcolm,” she returned.

I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady Crawford together.

When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the long years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a heartache common to both.

Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.

“Tell me, Dorothy,” said the old lady, “tell me, do you love this man so tenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?”

“Ah, my dear aunt,” the girl responded, “words cannot tell.  You cannot know what I feel.”

“Alas!  I know only too well, my child.  I, too, loved a man when I was your age, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by my parents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom—­God help me—­I loathed.”

“Oh, my sweet aunt!” cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old lady’s neck and kissing her cheek.  “How terribly you must have suffered!”

“Yes,” responded Lady Crawford, “and I am resolved you shall not endure the same fate.  I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you.  Do not tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception toward your father than I must.  But you may tell me of his station in life, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you.”

“His station in life,” answered Dorothy, “is far better than mine.  In person he is handsome beyond any woman’s wildest dream of manly beauty.  In character he is noble, generous, and good.  He is far beyond my deserts, Aunt Dorothy.”

“Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?” asked the aunt.

“That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy,” returned the girl, “unless you would have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do.  Although he is vastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father would kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice; and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not.”