Then Madelon hushed her sobs, with a stern grip of her will upon her quivering nerves, and raised herself up and away from him.  “That has nothing to do with this,” she said, coldly.  “Let me go now, Eugene.”

But Eugene held her strongly with a hand on either arm, and scanned her keenly with his indignant eyes.  “He is at the root of the whole matter,” said he, “and you know it.  I wish—­”

“I tell you Burr Gordon has nothing to do with this last.  He knows nothing of it.  Let me go, Eugene.”

But Eugene still held her and looked at her.  “Madelon—­”

“What?  I can sit here no longer.  I have work to do.  There is nothing the matter with me.  I have nothing to complain of.  What I do I do of my own free will.”

“Madelon,” whispered Eugene, with a red flush stealing over his dark face, his eyes dropping a little before her, “you don’t—­think she will—­marry him?”

“Who?  Dorothy?”

Eugene nodded.

“Of course she will—­marry him, Eugene Hautville.”

Eugene set his sister down suddenly and got up.  “All I’ve got to say is, then,” he cried, with a movement of his right arm like a blow, “it’s a damned shame that the child can’t be taken care of among us all.”

“What do you mean, Eugene Hautville?”

“I mean that she had better lie down in her grave than marry that—­”

“Take care what you say, Eugene.”

“I say she had—­”

“Better lie down in her grave than marry him—­than marry Burr Gordon?  What do you mean?  Who are you, that you talk in this way?  He is better than you all; not one of you is fit to tie his shoe.”

“Madelon, are you mad?  He is a lying villain, and you know it, and—­God knows it’s only on her account I speak.  Some one ought to tell her.”

“Tell her, tell her!  What do you think I would tell her if I were to speak?  If she were to come to me and ask me if Burr ever courted me and played me false for her, I would tell her, no, no, no!  If she were to ask me if Burr ever kissed me, or said a fond word to me, or gave me a fond look, I would tell her, and this last is the truth, that he never gave me more than a passing thought, and ’twas only my own short-sightedness and conceit that made me think ’twas more than that, shame to me!  Isn’t he a man, and shouldn’t a man look well about him among us to be sure his heart is set?  I’d tell her ’twas something for her to hold up her head for among other women all the days of her life, because he chose her.  That’s what I’d tell her.”

“Madelon!”

“Dorothy Fair shall not cheat Burr now, when he has set his heart upon her.  It would be worse than all that has gone before.  I tell you I won’t bear that.  He shall have her if he wants her.  He has suffered enough.”

“But you—­you,” gasped Eugene.  “I thought you—­I thought you wanted him yourself, Madelon.”