“Put it on the table, Dorothy, for a moment. I want to speak to you. Come, stand here, please.”
Dorothy pouted, but obliged, “Behold, thine handmaiden,” she said, “what wills my lord?”
“Dorothy, be serious for a moment. Your uncle has told me a strange story. I cannot repeat it all. Can you credit it? I am your cousin!”
“Oh! poor fellow, he’s raving again. I knew how it would be, all this talking. I’m sorry to hear it, Tom—I do so hate cousins. I’ve dozens of ’em, and not one nice one in the lot.”
“And I’m not Tom Pinder, either.”
“And who may you please to be?”
“Only Tom Tinker, son of Jabez Tinker, of Wilberlee Mill that was and is to be.”
Dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and fixedly on Tom.
“And is that all you have to tell me, Mr. Tom Tinker?”
“No, Dorothy, I have another secret to tell you. But you must come closer, closer still. Dorothy, I love you. I have loved you for years. Will you be my wife?”