of Dolly, I suppose."

She turned away her head.

"And never of Dolly?"

"I will tell you what you said once, Richard," she answered, her voice
dropping very low. "I was sitting by the window there, and the dawn was
coming. And suddenly I heard you cry: 'Patty, when I return will you be
my wife?' I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice."

The room was very still. And the vision of Patty in the parlour of
Gordon's Pride, knitting my woollen stocking, rose before me.

"Yes," I said at length, "I asked her that the day before I left for the
war. God bless her! She has the warmest heart in the world, and the
most generous nature. Do you know what her answer was, Dorothy?"

"No." 'Twas only her lips moving that formed the word. She was twisting
absently the tassel of the bed curtain.

"She asked me if I loved her."

My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me searchingly through and
through.

"And you?" she said, in the same inaudible way.

"I could answer nothing. 'Twas because of her father's dying wish I
asked her, and she guessed that same. I would not tell her a lie, for
only the one woman lives whom I love, and whom I have loved ever since
we were children together among the strawberries. Need I say that that
woman is you, Dorothy? I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall
between my grandfather's knees, and I will love you till death claims
me."

Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating. But the snowy apron
upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring in the wind, her head was
high, and her eyes were far away. Even my voice sounded in the distance
as I continued:

"Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy? Hallowed is the day
that I can ask it."

What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender of that proud and
noble nature! And her words, my dears, shall be sacred to you, too, who
are descended from her. She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes
gazing full into my own with a fondness to make me tremble.

"Dear Richard," she said, "I believe I have loved you always. If I have
been wilful and wicked, I have suffered more than you know--even as I
have made you suffer."

"And now our suffering is over, Dorothy."

"Oh, don't say that, my dear!" she cried, "but let us rather make a
prayer to God."

Down she got on her knees close beside me, and I took both of her hands
between my own. But presently I sought for a riband that was around my