"I am glad you are making such fair progress with Doll," said Sir George. "Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?" I was surprised to hear that I had made any progress. In fact, I did not know that I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn in what the progress consisted, so I said:-- "I have not spoken to Dorothy yet concerning the marriage, and I fear that I have made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly enough to me, but--" "I should say that the gift from you she exhibited would indicate considerable progress," said Sir George, casting an expressive glance toward me. "What gift?" I stupidly inquired. "The golden heart, you rascal. She said you told her it had belonged to your mother." "Holy Mother of Truth!" thought I, "pray give your especial care to my cousin Dorothy. She needs it." Sir George thrust at my side with his thumb and continued:-- "Don't deny it, Malcolm. Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter. But perhaps you know better than I how to go at her. I was thinking only the other day that your course was probably the right one. Doll, I suspect, has a dash of her old father's temper, and she may prove a little troublesome unless we let her think she is having her own way. Oh, there is nothing like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just let them think they are having their own way and--and save trouble. Doll may have more of her father in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us to move slowly. You will be able to judge, but you must not move too slowly. If in the end she should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break her neck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell churchyard than a wilful, stubborn, disobedient huzzy in Haddon Hall." [Illustration] Sir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passed unnoticed by him. "I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don't be too cautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed." "Trust me," I answered, "I shall speak--" and my words unconsciously sank away to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows into words. "Dorothy, Dorothy," said the thoughts again and again, "where came you by the golden heart?" and "where learned you so villanously to lie?"