CHAPTER VIII
MALCOLM No. 2

Sir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heart against himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her father had treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heart to John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room the flood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffable tenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. With solitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalled every movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soul unbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrilling memories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea of bliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love and her lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed, as was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet for the night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot that Madge was in the room.

Dorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polished surface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verify John's words.

"He called me 'my beauty' twice," she thought, "and 'my Aphrodite' once." Then her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:—

"I wish he could see me now." And she blushed at the thought, as she should have done. "He acted as if he meant all he said," she thought. "I know he meant it. I trust him entirely. But if he should change? Holy Mother, I believe I should die. But I do believe him. He would not lie, even though he is not a Vernon."

With thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate, there came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and the laugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad change in Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would have filled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George! Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan, and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails to bring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of your reach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to you forever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given to her go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you are but an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while she revels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughs while you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed for those who bring children into this world.

Who is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for a parent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parents would cease to feel that they own their children in common with their horses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do in varying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return of love would be far more adequate than it is.

Dorothy stood before her mirror plaiting her hair. Her head was turned backward a little to one side that she might more easily reach the great red golden skein. In that entrancing attitude the reflection of the nether lip of which John had spoken so fondly came distinctly to Dorothy's notice. She paused in the braiding of her hair and held her face close to the mirror that she might inspect the lip, whose beauty John had so ardently admired. She turned her face from one side to the other that she might view it from all points, and then she thrust it forward with a pouting movement that would have set the soul of a mummy pulsing if he had ever been a man. She stood for a moment in contemplation of the full red lip, and then resting her hands upon the top of the mirror table leaned forward and kissed its reflected image.

Again forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words.

"He was surely right concerning my lower lip," she said, speaking to herself. Then without the least apparent relevance, "He had been smoking." Again her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid of hair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was as perfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the arm to its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Again she thought aloud: "I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day—" But the words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from her hair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away so that even it should not behold her beauty.

You see after all is told Dorothy was modest.

She finished her toilet without the aid of her mirror; but before she extinguished the candle she stole one more fleeting glance at its polished surface, and again came the thought, "Perhaps some day—" Then she covered the candle, and amid enfolding darkness lay down beside Madge, full of thoughts and sensations that made her tremble; for they were strange to her, and she knew not what they meant.

Dorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the latter said:—

"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?"

"Who was on fire?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "What do you mean, Madge?"

"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one," said Madge.

"What do you mean?" again asked Dorothy.

"You said 'He had been smoking,'" responded Madge.

"Oh," laughed Dorothy, "that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. I was speaking of—of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does." Then she explained the process of tobacco smoking.

"Yes, I know," answered Madge. "I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held it in my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use."

Silence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:—

"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learn why Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry that this trouble has come upon you."

"Trouble, Madge?" returned Dorothy. "Truly, you do not understand. No trouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come to pass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great that it frightens me."

"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?" asked Madge.

"His conduct makes it possible for my happiness to be complete," returned Dorothy. "If he were kind to me, I should be unhappy, but his cruelty leaves me free to be as happy as I may. For my imprisonment in this room I care not a farthing. It does not trouble me, for when I wish to see—see him again, I shall do so. I don't know at this time just how I shall effect it; but be sure, sweet one, I shall find a way." There was no doubt in Madge's mind that Dorothy would find a way.

"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met at Derby-town?"

"Yes," answered Dorothy, "he is Sir John Manners."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear.

"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?" said Dorothy.

"Oh, Dorothy!" was the only response.

"You will not betray me?" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious.

"You know whether or not I will betray you," answered Madge.

"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you should see him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor soft beauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know how wonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one."

"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?"

"Yes," came in reply from under the coverlet.

After a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face.

"Yes," she said boldly, "I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in so doing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge, would die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I would not for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been."

"Oh, Dorothy!" was all the answer Madge gave.

"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy,' many times if you knew all." Another pause ensued, after which Madge asked:—

"How did you know he had been smoking?"

"I—I tasted it," responded Dorothy.

"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?" returned Madge in wonderment.

Dorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts to explain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her.

"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong," returned Madge, although she had some doubts in her own mind upon the point.

"Well, if it is wrong," answered Dorothy, sighing, "I don't care to live."

"Dorothy, I fear you are an immodest girl," said Madge.

"I fear I am, but I don't care—John, John, John!"

"How came he to speak of your lower lip?" asked Madge. "It certainly is very beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?"

"It was after—after—once," responded Dorothy.

"And your arm," continued remorseless Madge, "how came he to speak of it? You surely did not—"

"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I have not come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the Holy Mother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm."

"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror," responded Madge, "and you said, 'Perhaps some day—'"

"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I will say a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I am wicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again."

The girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed "John, John, John," and slumbered happily.

That part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, west of the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:—

The two rooms in Entrance Tower over the great doors at the northwest corner of Haddon Hall were occupied by Dorothy and Madge. The west room overlooking the Wye was their parlor. The next room to the east was their bedroom. The room next their bedroom was occupied by Lady Crawford. Beyond that was Sir George's bedroom, and east of his room was one occupied by the pages and two retainers. To enter Dorothy's apartments one must pass through all the other rooms I have mentioned. Her windows were twenty-five feet from the ground and were barred with iron. After Dorothy's sentence of imprisonment, Lady Crawford, or some trusted person in her place, was always on guard in Aunt Dorothy's room to prevent Dorothy's escape, and guards were also stationed in the retainer's room for the same purpose. I tell you this that you may understand the difficulties Dorothy would have to overcome before she could see John, as she declared to Madge she would. But my opinion is that there are no limits to the resources of a wilful girl. Dorothy saw Manners. The plan she conceived to bring about the desired end was so seemingly impossible, and her execution of it was so adroit and daring, that I believe it will of itself interest you in the telling, aside from the bearing it has upon this history. No sane man would have deemed it possible, but this wilful girl carried it to fruition. She saw no chance of failure. To her it seemed a simple, easy matter. Therefore she said with confidence and truth, "I will see him when I wish to."

Let me tell you of it.

During Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with her and Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I have told you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed the beautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.

One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her a complete suit of my garments,—boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, and doublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but she refused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch the garments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle to her hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Those she kept—for what reason I could not guess.

Lady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the key of the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments, and the door was always kept locked.

Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, with intent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy, mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, acted faithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she told me of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person of Lady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pride in her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained good Aunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy's love-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear of Sir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.

One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at Lady Crawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully after me, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.

I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom, where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. When I left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on her great bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pages of "Sir Philip de Comynges." The dear old lady was near-sighted and was slightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was in deep shadow. In it there was no candle.

My two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching the sunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with the rare smiles I had learned to expect from them. I drew a chair near to the window and we talked and laughed together merrily for a few minutes. After a little time Dorothy excused herself, saying that she would leave Madge and me while she went into the bedroom to make a change in her apparel.

Madge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, "You have not been out to-day for exercise."

I had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my return to see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned.

"Will you walk with me about the room?" I asked. My real reason for making the suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel its velvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked.

She quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As we walked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I felt that any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence.

Never shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening red rays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floor and illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall.

The tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, and the picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling at the feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illumined scene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tender love for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was the noblest motive I had ever felt.

Moved by an impulse I could not resist, I stopped in our walk, and falling to my knee pressed her hand ardently to my lips. Madge did not withdraw her hand, nor did she attempt to raise me. She stood in passive silence. The sun's rays had risen as the sun had sunk, and the light was falling like a holy radiance from the gates of paradise upon the girl's head. I looked upward, and never in my eyes had woman's face appeared so fair and saintlike. She seemed to see me and to feel the silent outpouring of my affection. I rose to my feet, and clasping both her hands spoke only her name "Madge."

She answered simply, "Malcolm, is it possible?" And her face, illumined by the sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took her to my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by no sign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fell upon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer compared with her was dross to me.

We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand without an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the happiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to lave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my rhapsodies must have an end.

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had lent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak. She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and turned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against the oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with it and had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her curiosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. I whispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and then I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. I noiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place in Dorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filled me with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in the shadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self, Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.

"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones that certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.

"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.

"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy.

"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford. "Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history."

"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times." There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought Dorothy into trouble.

"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?" asked Aunt Dorothy, perhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already for Malcolm No. 2.

"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps—ah—perhaps I prefer the—the ah—the middle portion."

"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy," returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always thinking—the ladies, the ladies."

"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self responded in a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused so much of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mind cannot be better employed than—"

"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep in practice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise on."

"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy, full of the spirit of mischief.

"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon," retorted Aunt Dorothy with a toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it, one little farthing's worth."

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit than Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.

"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford."

"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have been reading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy. Do you remember the cause of her death?"

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to admit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.

"You did not read the book with attention," replied Lady Crawford. "Sir Philip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty."

"That disease will never depopulate England," was the answer that came from my garments, much to my chagrin.

"Sir Malcolm," exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallant a speech from your lips."—"And," thought I, "she never will hear its like from me."

"Modesty," continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by young women nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but—"

"I am sure it is not," interrupted Dorothy.

"But," continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest and seemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in ungallant jest."

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.

"Do you not," said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to be modest, well-behaved maidens?"

"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, but as to Dorothy—well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her than death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does not kill. Dorothy has it mildly," then under her breath, "if at all."

The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment it caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.

"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford. "She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."

"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me great pain and grief."

"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.

"But, Malcolm," continued the old lady, putting down her book and turning with quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is the man with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"

"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely a modest girl would not act as she does."

"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, you know nothing of women."

"Spoken with truth," thought I.

The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with each other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the window. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I could help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I feign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am greatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."

"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I am sure she is fathoms deep in love."

"Nothing," said Lady Crawford, "but a great passion would have impelled her to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty, won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her rich domain."

"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm, sighing in a manner entirely new to him.

"No," answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. I wonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry Lord Stanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started for Derby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within a day or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, has surrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between her and my brother."

Dorothy tossed her head expressively.

"It is a good match," continued Lady Crawford, "a good match, Malcolm. I pity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do it faithfully."

"My dear Lady Crawford," said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelings do great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your niece is a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? Now I am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, see her lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry the man of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself. Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape."

Lady Crawford laughed. "She shall not escape. Have no fear of that, Malcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. No girl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere child like Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm—although I am sore at heart for Dorothy's sake—it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think of poor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of this key. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to be duped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape."

I said to myself: "No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girl who is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for the winter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, Aunt Dorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated."

"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says," spoke my other self, "and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian who cannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would the trouble were over and that Dorothy were well married."

"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart," replied Aunt Dorothy.

After a brief pause in the conversation Malcolm No. 2 said:—

"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit me to say good night?"

"If you must go," answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with her beloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door.

"Keep good watch, my dear aunt," said Malcolm. "I greatly fear that Dorothy—" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and on Dorothy Vernon.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. "Why should he fear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed." And soon she was deep in the pages of her book.

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