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Sir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passed unnoticed by him.

“I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don’t be too cautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed.”

“Trust me,” I answered, “I shall speak—­” and my words unconsciously sank away to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows into words.

“Dorothy, Dorothy,” said the thoughts again and again, “where came you by the golden heart?” and “where learned you so villanously to lie?”

“From love,” was the response, whispered by the sighing winds.  “From love, that makes men and women like unto gods and teaches them the tricks of devils.”  “From love,” murmured the dry rustling leaves and the rugged trees.  “From love,” sighed the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweet restful azure of the vaulted sky.  “From love,” cried the mighty sun as he poured his light and heat upon the eager world to give it life.  I would not give a fig for a woman, however, who would not lie herself black in the face for the sake of her lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue few women lack.  One who would scorn to lie under all other circumstances would—­but you understand.  I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttered a real lie.  She hated all that was evil and loved all that was good till love came a-teaching.

I quickly invented an excuse to leave Sir George, and returned to the Hall to seek Dorothy.  I found her and asked her to accompany me for a few minutes that I might speak with her privately.  We went out upon the terrace and I at once began:—­

“You should tell me when I present you gifts that I may not cause trouble by my ignorance nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have done.  You see when a man gives a lady a gift and he does not know it, he is apt to—­”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation.  “Did you—­”

“No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously near it.”

“I—­I wanted to tell you about it.  I tried several times to do so—­I did so long to tell somebody, but I could not bring myself to speak.  I was full of shame, yet I was proud and happy, for all that happened was good and pure and sacred.  You are not a woman; you cannot know—­”

“But I do know.  I know that you saw Manners the other day, and that he gave you a golden heart.”

“How did you know?  Did any one—­”

“Tell me?  No.  I knew it when you returned after five hours’ absence, looking radiant as the sun.”

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed, with a startled movement.

“I also knew,” I continued, “that at other times when you rode out upon Dolcy you had not seen him.”

“How did you know?” she asked, with quick-coming breath.

“By your ill-humor,” I answered.

“I knew it was so.  I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing.  I could almost see father and Madge and you—­even the servants—­reading the wickedness written upon my heart.  I knew that I could hide it from nobody.”  Tears were very near the girl’s eyes.