It was with slow and hesitating steps that she sought the house of her lover. She was well aware that she would find him at home at this hour; and the thought that she would soon see him face to face brought the blood to her cheeks. Pausing at the door, she twice or thrice resolved to go away; but the memory of her isolation, of her need of sympathy, confirmed her original intention. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by Mrs. Tice, who changed colour at the sight of the girl. "Deary me, Miss Carew!" she said in some confusion; "I had no idea it was you. Is it the doctor you wish to see?" "Yes, Mrs. Tice. Is he within? "He is, my dear young lady. Come into the sitting-room, miss, and I'll inquire if Mr. Allen will see you." Left alone in the room, Dora sank into a chair. The ceremony with which she had been received, the obvious confusion of Mrs. Tice, touched her painfully. She wondered what could be the reason of such things. They made her only the more determined to see Allen, and demand an explanation. But he had refused her once before; it was probable he would do so again. She felt her helpless condition keenly at this moment. While she was thus taken up with these sad thoughts, she heard a firm step approach the door; it opened, and Allen stood before her. He seemed even more haggard and worn than the last time she had seen him. His shoulders were bent, his eyes lacked fire; altogether the man looked so thoroughly ill, so consumed by trouble and vexation of spirit, that Dora involuntarily took a step forward out of sheer sympathy. Then she recollected his conduct, and stopped short. They both looked steadily at one another. "Why have you come to see me?" said Allen wearily. "It can do no good. I can explain nothing." "Allen, you loved me once." "I love you still," he responded hastily. "I shall always love you." "Words, words, words!" said Dora, after the manner of Hamlet. "Your actions prove otherwise. Now listen to me, Allen: I have come to you for advice." "I am the worst person in the world to give it to you," replied Scott, with cruel emphasis on the last words. "But if you wish it, I will do so." "I do wish it, Allen. I am an orphan. I have few acquaintances, and no friends. My guardian is dead, and in all the world there is no living soul who cares about me." "Dora!" he cried in a tone of agony, "how can you speak so? I care! I would rather die than see you suffer." "I do not wish you to die," answered the girl with some bitterness; "it is so easy to say so--so difficult, so difficult to do. No, Allen; I wish you to live and help me. Let me put my position before you. My guardian told me that I had five hundred a year. He deceived me; I inherited nothing from my parents." "Who told you this, Dora?"