yed this walk, nor how thankful I
am to you for taking me," she said.

I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.

"Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom have
that pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and full
of life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?"

"No," I responded.

"You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world.
Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle in
her gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She often
kisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the most
perfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. 'The two D's,' we call
them. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a--a dash between
them," she said with a laugh and a blush.

Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if the
blessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, after
all, is where it brings the greatest good.

After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days were
pleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end of
November the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tinge
of color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquired
in exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her hand
was a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I say
thoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absence
was because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heart
for me.

One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, Sir
George and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring for
the night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before the
fire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy at
the massive oak table in the middle of the room.

Sir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: "Dawson tells me that the
queen's officers arrested another of Mary Stuart's damned French friends
at Derby-town yesterday,--Count somebody; I can't pronounce their
miserable names."

"Can you not remember his name?" I asked. "He may be a friend of mine." My
remark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensive
to me.

"That is true, Malcolm," responded Sir George. "I beg your pardon. I meant
to speak ill onl