“I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful I am to you for taking me,” she said.

I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.

“Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom have that pleasure.  Walking is too slow for Dorothy.  She is so strong and full of life.  She delights to ride her mare Dolcy.  Have you seen Dolcy?”

“No,” I responded.

“You must see her at once.  She is the most beautiful animal in the world.  Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle in her gaits.  She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection.  She often kisses Dorothy.  Mare and rider are finely mated.  Dorothy is the most perfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare.  ‘The two D’s,’ we call them.  But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a—­a dash between them,” she said with a laugh and a blush.

Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if the blessed light of day were in her eyes.  It was in her soul, and that, after all, is where it brings the greatest good.

After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days were pleasant.  The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end of November the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tinge of color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquired in exercise.  We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her hand was a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day.  Again I say thoughts of love for her had never entered my mind.  Perhaps their absence was because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heart for me.

One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, Sir George and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring for the night.  I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before the fire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy at the massive oak table in the middle of the room.

Sir George was rapidly growing drunk.  He said:  “Dawson tells me that the queen’s officers arrested another of Mary Stuart’s damned French friends at Derby-town yesterday,—­Count somebody; I can’t pronounce their miserable names.”

“Can you not remember his name?” I asked.  “He may be a friend of mine.”  My remark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensive to me.

“That is true, Malcolm,” responded Sir George.  “I beg your pardon.  I meant to speak ill only of Mary’s meddlesome friends, who are doing more injury than good to their queen’s cause by their plotting.”

I replied:  “No one can regret these plots more than I do.  They certainly will work great injury to the cause they are intended to help.  But I fear many innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones.  Without your protection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here would probably be of short duration.  After my misfortunes in Scotland, I know not what I should have done had it not been for your generous welcome.  I lost all in Scotland, and it would now be impossible for me to go to France.  An attempt on my part to escape would result in my arrest.  Fortune certainly has turned her capricious back upon me, with the one exception that she has left me your friendship.”