ou hate Lord Rutland," I repeated.

"Why, y-e-s," she responded. "I cannot help that, but you know it would be
very wrong to--to hate all his family. To hate him is bad enough."

I soon began to fear that I had praised Sir John overmuch.

"I think Sir John is all there is of Lord Rutland's family," I said,
alarmed yet amused at Dorothy's search for an excuse not to hate my
new-found friend.

"Well," she continued after a pause, throwing her head to one side, "I am
sorry there are no more of that family not to hate."

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed. "What has come over you? You surprise
me."

"Yes," she answered, with a little sigh, "I certainly have surprised
myself by--by my willingness to forgive those who have injured my house. I
did not know there was so much--so much good in me."

"Mistress Pharisee," thought I, "you are a hypocrite."

Again intending to be ironical, I said, "Shall I fetch him from the
tap-room and present him to you?"

Once more my irony was lost upon the girl. Evidently that sort of humor
was not my strong point.

"No, no," she responded indignantly, "I would not speak to him for--"
Again she broke her sentence abruptly, and after a little pause, short in
itself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two score
times, she continued: "It would not be for the best. What think you,
Cousin Malcolm?"

"Surely the girl has gone mad," thought I. Her voice was soft and
conciliating as if to say, "I trust entirely to your mature, superior
judgment."

My judgment coincided emphatically with her words, and I said: "I spoke
only in jest. It certainly would not be right. It would be all wrong if
you were to meet him."

"That is true," the girl responded with firmness, "but--but no real harm
could come of it," she continued, laughing nervously. "He could not strike
me nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, and
as there is no need--I am curious to know what one of his race is like.
It's the only reason that would induce me to consent. Of course you know
there could be no other reason for me to wish--that is, you know--to be
willing to meet him. Of course you know."

"Certainly," I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. "I will
tell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he is
like. As for his personal appearance, you saw him, did you not?"

I thought surely that piece of irony would not fail, but it did, and I
have se