"How old are you, Lottie?"
"I was twenty-one last June," she said, a little proudly.
"So you are a June blossom, eh? Well, you look like it." But he puzzled her by his long, searching glance into her face.
"Why do you ask?" she said.
"I want to be sure that you are old and mature enough to decide a very important question."
"Well," said Lottie, her breath coming quick, "I intend to decide all questions which relate to my own life and well-being."
"Be careful, young woman. You had better follow the advice of old and wise heads like your aunt's and mother's."
"Uncle, what do you mean?" said she, impatiently.
"Well," said Mr. Dimmerly, deliberately, looking searchingly into her face all the time, "I have sounded that thick-headed nephew of mine—there, you needn't start so: do you suppose a Dimmerly would betray a woman's secret?—and what do you think he most dreads to discover as true?—that you love him a little."
"It's something he never shall discover," said Lottie, almost harshly, springing up with flashing eyes and scarlet face. "I will not go on this ride, and he shall have no trouble in escaping my society."