Burr Gordon made an impatient yet deferential motion to enter.  “I would like to see her a few minutes if she is at home,” said he.

The woman muttered something which might have been in her native dialect, the words were so rolled into each other under her thick tongue.  Her small, sharp eyes were fairly malicious upon the young man’s handsome face.

“I don’t know what you say,” he said, half angrily.  “Can’t I see her?”

“She’s in the north parlor, I s’pose,” muttered the black woman; and she stood aside and let Burr Gordon pass in, following him with her hostile eyes as he opened the north-parlor door.  Dorothy Fair sat with her embroidery-work at the mahogany table, whereon a whole branch of candles burned in silver sticks.  She was working a muslin collar for her own adornment, and she set a fine stitch in a sprig before she rose up, either to prove her self-command to herself or to Burr Gordon.  She had also held herself quiet during the delay in the hall.

Dorothy Fair came of a gentle and self-controlled race of New England ministers; but now her young heart carried her away.  She stood up; her embroidery, with her scissors and bodkin, slid to the ground, and she came forward with her fair curls dropping around a face pink and smiling openly with love like a child’s, and was, seemingly half of her own accord, in Burr Gordon’s arms with her lips meeting his; and then they sat down side by side on the north-parlor sofa.

Dorothy Fair’s face was very sweet to see; her blue eyes and her soft lips were innocent and fond under her lover’s gaze.  Her little white hand clung to his like a baby’s.  There was a sweet hollow under her chin, above her fine lace collar.  Her soft, fair curls smelt in his face of roses and lavender.  The utter daintiness of this maiden Dorothy Fair was a separate charm and a fascination full of subtle and innocent earthiness to the senses of a lover.  She appealed to his selfish delight like a sweet-scented flower, like a pink or a rose.

Lot Gordon had been only half right in his analysis of his cousin’s wooing.  When Burr sat with his arm around this maiden’s waist, with his face bent tenderly down towards the soft, pink cheek on his shoulder, this sweetness near at hand was wellnigh sufficient for him, and Dorothy’s shy murmur of love in his ear overcame largely the memory of the other’s wonderful song.  A bee cares only for the honey and not for the flower, therefore one flower is as dear to him as another; and so it is with many a lover when he gets fairly to tasting love.  The memory of the rose before fades, even if he never wore it.  Then, too, Burr Gordon had a sense of approbation from his shrewder self which sustained him.  This Dorothy Fair, the minister’s daughter, of gentle New England lineage, the descendant of college-learned men, and of women who had held themselves with a fine dignity and mild reserve in the village society, the sole heiress of what seemed