So saying, he turned his back, and was preparing to vault over the hedge again, when he heard Dora, in a soft low voice, say, “I never suspected you, Harry, of that, or any other baseness.” “Thank you, Dora,” said he, turning with some emotion, “thank you, Dora, for this first, this only kind word you’ve said to me since you came home.” Looking at her earnestly, as he approached nearer, he saw the traces of tears, and an air of dejection in her countenance, which turned all his anger to pity and tenderness in an instant. With a soothing tone he said, “Forgive my unseasonable reproach--I was wrong--I see you are not as much to blame as I thought you were.” “To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how--and why--and for what did you think me to blame, sir?” The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of what he had said flashed suddenly on his mind; and in a few moments a rapid succession of ideas followed. “Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being ready to marry the man to whom her father had destined--promised her hand; and was he, Harry Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of the family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling against her father’s will, or disputing the propriety of his choice?” Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, and he finished with the _conviction_ that she was “a sacrifice, a martyr, and a miracle of perfection!” “Blame you, Dora!” cried he, “blame you! No--I admire, I esteem, I respect you. Did I say that I blamed you? I did not know what I said, or what I meant.” “And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, now?” said Dora. The altered look and tone of tartness in which this question was asked produced as sudden a change in Harry’s _conviction_. He hesitatingly answered, “I am--” “He is,” said Sheelah, confidently. “I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah: I can judge for myself,” said Dora. “Your words tell me one thing, sir, and your looks another,” said she, turning to Ormond; “which am I to believe, pray?” “Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks best for him.” “Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora. “Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began. “No, sir, I will not,” interrupted Dora. “What’s the use of hearing or listening to a man who does not, by the confession of his own eyes, and his own tongue, know two minutes together _what_ he means, or mean two minutes together the same thing? A woman might as well listen to a fool or a madman!” “Too harsh, too severe, Dora,” said he. “Too true, too sincere, perhaps you mean.” “Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak to you as a brother--” “Who allowed you, sir?” interrupted Dora. “Your father, Dora.” “My father cannot, shall not! Nobody but nature can make any man my brother--nobody but myself shall allow any man to call himself my brother.” “I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss O’Shane--I was only going to offer one word of advice.”