“Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance.  I was twelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight.”

“But, Madge,” said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquired knowledge, “a girl of twelve cannot see a man.”

“No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves,” answered Madge, quietly.

“How does she see him?” queried Dorothy.

“With her heart.”

“Have you, too, learned that fact?” asked Dorothy.

Madge hesitated for a moment and murmured “Yes.”

“Who is he, dear one?” whispered Dorothy.

“I may not tell even you, Dorothy,” replied Madge, “because it can come to nothing.  The love is all on my part.”

Dorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her secret.

“Please don’t even make a guess concerning him,” said Madge.  “It is my shame and my joy.”

It looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like the plague that infects a whole family if one but catch it.

Dorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge’s promise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if ever the time should come to tell it.

“When did you see him?” asked Madge, who was more willing to receive than to impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart.

“To-day,” answered Dorothy.  Then she told Madge about the scenes at the gate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in the kitchen and banquet hall.

“How could you tell your father such a falsehood?” asked Madge in consternation.

“It was very easy.  You see I had to do it.  I never lied until recently.  But oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!” “This” was somewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear to you what Dorothy meant.  The girl continued:  “She forgets all else.  It will drive her to do anything, however wicked.  For some strange cause, under its influence she does not feel the wrong she does.  It acts upon a girl’s sense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain.  Before it came upon me in—­in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had I told my father a falsehood.  I might have equivocated, or I might have evaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie.  But now it is as easy as winking.”

“And I fear, Dorothy,” responded Madge, “that winking is very easy for you.”

“Yes,” answered candid Dorothy with a sigh.

“It must be a very great evil,” said Madge, deploringly.

“One might well believe so,” answered Dorothy, “but it is not.  One instinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good.”

Madge asked, “Did Sir John tell you that—­that he—­”

“Yes,” said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays of the rushlight.

“Did you tell him?”