"Oh, Arthur, how can you ask?" Her voice trembled, she was very near tears. "Dear," she continued in a lower voice, taking his hand in hers, "if I thought you had one corner in your heart of which I knew nothing, I scarcely know what I should do. 'Trust me all in all,' Arthur. I say it in all sincerity." She smiled faintly. "I promise not to be like that naughty Vivien, wrapping you up in spells, even if—if you should have any secret—"
"That would pain you very much to know, little cousin."
Adèle looked up bravely: "I should prefer to know it, Arthur—indeed I should; I think, dear—I think—I could put myself out of the question altogether, and help you as a sister might."
He did not notice the tremulousness, the slight choking of voice with which her brave little sentence ended.
"I wish with all my heart that you were my sister, Adèle: then I could tell you without any hesitation."
Adèle turned a little pale: "I am your sister, Arthur. Tell me."
He looked down upon her kindly: "I will tell you, Adèle, for in these matters I believe frankness to be the best policy; and, after all, it may be only a dream. I was thinking of Margaret Grey."