“Dorothy,” said I, seriously but kindly, “have you and Sir John spoken of—­”

She evidently knew that I meant to say “of love,” for she interrupted me.

“N-o, but surely he knows.  And I—­I think—­at least I hope with all my heart that—­”

“I will take the heart to Sir John,” said I, interrupting her angrily, “and you need not see him again.  He has acted like a fool and a knave.  He is a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic terms I have at my command.”

“Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with anger; “you—­you asked for my confidence and I gave it.  You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am a fool indeed.  Traitor!”

“My dear cousin,” said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me with bad faith, “your secret is safe with me.  I swear it by my knighthood.  You may trust me.  I spoke in anger.  But Sir John has acted badly.  That you cannot gainsay.  You, too, have done great evil.  That also you cannot gainsay.”

“No,” said the girl, dejectedly, “I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil is yet to come.”

“You must do something,” I continued.  “You must take some decisive step that will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if you would save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you.  Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin.  My angry words sprang from my love for you and my fear for your future.”

No girl’s heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than Dorothy’s.  No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.

My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had aroused.  But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a moment or two created a disastrous conflagration.  You shall hear.

She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in a low, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother her resentment.

“I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm.  What is it that you wish to ask of me?  Your request is granted before it is made.”

“Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy,” I replied.  “It is a request your father ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to you concerning the subject in the way I wish.”

I could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that I did not want her for my wife.  I felt I must wait for a further opportunity to say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, and that circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her.  I well knew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain.

“Why, what is it all about?” asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I believe, what was to follow.

“It is this:  your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass out of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that your children may bear the loved name of Vernon.”