“I didn’t dare to, auntie. I feared to displease you, and above all, I feared to be ridiculed about it. I thought you would say just as everybody else did, who knew it, that ‘it was a foolish, childish affair,’ and try to persuade me to consent to a separation.” Dora buried her burning face in the folds of madam’s dress, and sobbed afresh. Her aunt laid her hand fondly upon that golden-crowned head, and stroked it tenderly, while she sat for a few minutes in deep and troubled thought. At last she said: “And do you love him now, darling, well enough to consider yourself bound to him for life?” “Oh! yes, auntie, only—I am afraid he has forgotten his love for me.” And again the tears poured forth. “Why, love?” asked madam. “Because,” she replied, when she could control her voice, “when I looked up after he found the note, he sat pale and cold as a marble statue. You say you saw it too. I hoped he would at least give me one look of remembrance; but no, he did not, and my heart sank like lead in my bosom. Just then you called me, and I did not dare to look again. I felt so ashamed and grieved.” “What did you write, darling?” Dora repeated word for word what she had written. “There was nothing that you need feel at all ashamed of; and if he is true to you, he will seek you the first moment he is at liberty. And I don’t believe a man with such a face could be untrue!” “Bless you, auntie!” exclaimed Dora, giving her a little hug, “you make me very happy by saying so.” “Perhaps,” resumed madam, “he was so taken by surprise that he could not believe it at first, and if you had looked at him again you might have come away with a happier heart.” Truly she was a “shrewd one at guessing,” for she could not know how nearly the truth she came! “Do you really think so?” asked Dora, eagerly, the bright look coming again to her eyes. “I hope that may be the truth of it,” replied her aunt, thoughtfully. “But if it should not—nay, darling, try to look at it bravely,” she added, as Dora shuddered, and uttered a little moan. “If you should discover that, during the long years of hard study, his heart should have forgotten its allegiance to the little girl whom he married upon the impulse of a moment—or if, perchance, some German beauty has usurped your place, I know it would be hard, but it is best to look at the matter calmly—would you—could you desire to force yourself upon him as his wife?” “Never! I would let my heart break—I would die first!” exclaimed Dora, with glittering eyes and heaving bosom. “But, oh!” she added, a moment after, with quivering lips, “I cannot believe anything so dreadful of Robbie. I feel that he _is_ true. I could almost say I _know_ he is.” “Ah!” replied Madame Alroyd, smiling at her returning trust, and patting her tenderly upon the cheek.