“I’ve gone past myself.  All I think of now is what he wants,” said she, shortly.  She turned to go out of the room; then she stopped and spoke to him over her shoulder:  “There’s no need of talking any more about it.”  She added:  “I know what I’ve set out to do, and I can go through with it.”  Then the door shut after her, and Eugene sat down with his Shakespeare book.  But he could not read; he sat moodily puzzling over his sister, whose unfulfilled drama of life held his mind better than them all.

But puzzle as he might, he never once dreamed of the truth—­that his sister Madelon had promised to marry Lot Gordon in a month’s time, and sent her “yes” by word of mouth of Margaret Bean that morning.  Somehow, even with the ashes of the letter of proposal before his eyes on the hearth, and his sister’s “yes” ringing in his ears, knowing as he did that Lot as well as Burr had lost his heart to her, he could not conceive of such a possibility.  He was too well acquainted with Madelon’s attitude towards Lot, and she had never been one to walk whither she did not list for any man.  He could not imagine the possibility, well versed as he was, through his Shakespeare lessons, in the feminine heart, of his sister’s yielding her proud maiden will to any man.  He would as soon have thought of a wild-cat which he had trailed in the woods, which knew him as his mortal enemy, whose eyes had followed him with stealthy fury out of a way-side bush, to unbend from the crouch of its spring and walk purring tamely into his house at call, and fall to lapping milk out of a saucer on the hearth.  But no man can estimate the possibilities of character under the lever of circumstances, and there is power enough abroad to tame the savage in all nature.  Madelon Hautville had yielded to a stress of which her brother knew nothing, and he therefore scouted the idea, if it crossed his mind like a wild fancy, of her yielding at all.  He rather came to the conclusion that the letter had announced Burr’s engagement to Dorothy Fair, and that Madelon’s “yes” had signified proud approval of it.  He leaned to this conclusion the sooner because of the miserable tendency which a jealous heart has to force all suspicions to open its own sore.  “He’s going to marry Dorothy Fair,” Eugene told himself.  “It was like Lot to tell Madelon, and ask her if she was pleased with it.  And that was why she acted so.  Her heart broke at first and she cried, and then she stood up and hid it.  He’s going to marry Dorothy Fair!”

Eugene had a strong imagination, whereby he could suffer a thousandfold, if he would, every woe of his life.  Sitting now by his hearth fire, with his Shakespeare book, full of the joys and sorrows of immortal lovers, disregarded upon his knees, he let his fancy show him many a picture which tore his heart, although look upon it he would.  He saw Dorothy Fair in her wedding-gown; he saw her blush like a rose through her bridal lace; he saw her following Burr up the meeting-house aisle the Sabbath after her marriage with a soft rustling of silken finery, and a toss of white bridal plumes over her fair locks.  He saw those glances, which he swore to himself boldly enough then had first been his, turned upon his rival; he imagined sweet words and caresses which he had never tasted, and were perchance the sweeter for that, bestowed upon Burr.