ROGER. Was marching by; could not resist the temptation of a stolen glance at Dorothy. BIJAH. Have just given her your letter, and she is now writing one in answer. ROGER. But I must see her. BIJAH. Then I won't wait for that answer. And, as I know the sensations of a fluttering heart, I'll step out and let you flutter alone. ROGER. All right, Bijah. Where are you going? BIJAH. Back to camp. I've had a taste of Polly's pies. That's joy enough for one day. ROGER (_giving him papers_). Take these to the captain, and I will soon follow. BIJAH. All right. (_Takes flag._) Polly, should I on the cold earth lie, remember this—I loved your pie. (_Exit_ BIJAH.) POLLY. Pity sakes alive! Mr. Roger, how shall I break the news to Miss Dorothy? ROGER. Your wits were always lively, Polly. I shall leave it to you. POLLY. Dear me, she may come at any moment. Here, hide behind this. (ROGER _goes behind portière_, C.) POLLY. Oh, dear, every idea in my brain is playing tag with the other. Such a horrid sensation I feel, as if some one had proposed and I had said “No,” when I meant “Yes.” (_Raises eyes._) Shade of my departed grandsire, aid me. (_Draws herself up, makes to door_ R., _exits calling_, “_Miss Dorothy, Miss Dorothy_.”) ROGER (_drawing portière aside_). Oh, how good to be in my own home again. They say that stolen goods are always the sweetest; one look and kiss from Dorothy will indeed be worth the stealing—hark, they are coming. (_Hides. Enter_ DOROTHY _and_ POLLY.) DOR. What is the matter, Polly? From the vigorous manner in which you called my name, I should think the house was on fire, or besieged by burglars. POLLY (_excited_). Hush, Miss Dorothy, it ain't a fire—it's worse—it's burglars. DOR. (_screams_). Oh! POLLY. Don't, Miss Dorothy; some one entered the house while you were in your room, and has stolen something. DOR. Stolen something! What? POLLY. Something that belongs to you. It is very precious. DOR. (_looks at hand_). My rings are all here. POLLY. Oh,—no—not that, something worse; (_loud whisper_) it's your heart. DOR. Polly, tell me instantly, what do you mean? POLLY (_excited_). I mean—I mean—no, I don't mean, yes—I do— DOR. Polly, if you can talk sensibly, pray do, and not as if your brain were congested. POLLY. Indeed, Miss Dorothy, my brain is all right—but look (_mysteriously_) behind that portière. DOR. What is it? You make my very blood run cold. POLLY. Behind that portière (_goes to it, draws it aside, disclosing_ ROGER), is—is— DOR. Roger! (_Rushes into his arms._) ROGER. My own dear Dorothy. DOR. Oh, Polly, you frightened me so. POLLY. Thank heaven, that's over—it's worse than having a tooth pulled. ROGER. You did nobly, Polly. Will you tell Mrs. Graham that I am here? POLLY. Indeed I will. (_Exit_ POLLY, L.) DOR. Oh. Roger, I have wanted you so much. ROGER. What do you think of me? my lonely hours so far away from you all. DOR. But where have you been? Tell me, Roger.