The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below, albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge, and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands. The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the candles. "Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck. "No--no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary--if only I might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing. Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she were a little girl. Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of its own passion. Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting. "Dorothy," she whispered--"dear little Dot!" "Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible. "When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust me any longer?" "Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost convulsively. "Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss the troubled face. There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and the sputtering of the sap from the logs. Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with wavering, and was now resolved to speak. "Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemed filled with fear again, "you can tell no one,--no living person,--not even Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?" "Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committing herself. "What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply. "Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and told me to keep for you,--a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?" "No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then she cried in terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell him or my father of the matter?" "No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited until you were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself." "Good Mary,--good, true sister." And Dorothy pressed her lips to the hand she clasped.