“Grandfather, dear, you are crushing the gown!”

And so the fire is not yet gone out of this old frame.

Ah, yes, there they are again, those unpaved streets of old Annapolis arched with great trees on either side.  And here is Dolly, holding her skirt in one hand and her fan in the other, and I in a brave blue coat, and pumps with gold buttons, and a cocked hat of the newest fashion.  I had met her leaning over the gate in Prince George Street.  And, what was strange for her, so deep in thought that she jumped when I spoke her name.

“Dorothy, I have come for you to walk to the party, as we used when we were children.”

“As we used when we were children!” cried she.  And flinging wide the gate, stretched out her hand for me to take.  “And you are eighteen years to-day!  It seems but last year when we skipped hand in hand to Marlboro’ Street with Mammy Lucy behind us.  Are you coming, mammy?” she called.

“Yes, mistis, I’se comin’,” said a voice from behind the golden-rose bushes, and out stepped Aunt Lucy in a new turban, making a curtsey to me.  “La, Marse Richard!” said she, “to think you’se growed to be a fine gemman!  ‘Taint but t’other day you was kissin’ Miss Dolly on de plantation.”

“It seems longer than that to me, Aunt Lucy,” I answered, laughing at Dolly’s blushes.

“You have too good a memory, mammy,” said my lady, withdrawing her fingers from mine.

“Bress you, honey!  De ole woman doan’t forgit some things.”

And she fell back to a respectful six paces.

“Those were happy times,” said Dorothy.  Then the little sigh became a laugh.  “I mean to enjoy myself to-day, Richard.  But I fear I shall not see as much of you as I used.  You are old enough to play the host, now.”

“You shall see as much as you will.”

“Where have you been of late, sir?  In Gloucester Street?”

“’Tis your own fault, Dolly.  You are changeable as the sky,—­to-day sunny, and to-morrow cold.  I am sure of my welcome in Gloucester Street.”

She tripped a step as we turned the corner, and came closer to my side.

“You must learn to take me as you find me, dear Richard.  To-day I am in a holiday humour.”

Some odd note in her tone troubled me, and I glanced at her quickly.  She was a constant wonder and puzzle to me.  After that night at the theatre my hopes had risen for the hundredth time, but I had gone to Prince George Street on the morrow to meet another rebuff—­and Fitzhugh.  So I had learned to interpret her by other means than words, and now her mood seemed reckless rather than merry.

“Are you not happy, Dolly?” I asked abruptly.

She laughed.  “What a silly question!” she said.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because I believe you are not.”

In surprise she looked up at me, and then down at the pearls upon her satin slippers.

“I am going with you to your birthday festival, Richard.  Could we wish for more?  I am as happy as you.”