"That I admit," said Polwarth; "and perhaps a weaker life in the flower would have yielded sooner. I may have carried too far an analogy I was seeking to establish between it and the human heart, in which repression is so much more dangerous than mere oppression. Many a heart has withered like my poor little bud, because it did not know its friend when it saw him."
Dorothy was frightened. He knew something! Or did he only suspect? Perhaps he was merely guessing at her religious troubles, wanting to help her. She must answer carefully.
"I have no doubt you are right, Mr. Polwarth," she said; "but there are some things it is not wise, and other things it would not be right to speak about."
"Quite true," he answered. "I did not think it wise to say any thing sooner, but now I venture to ask how the poor lady does?"
"What lady?" returned Dorothy, dreadfully startled, and turning white.
"Mrs. Faber," answered Polwarth, with the utmost calmness. "Is she not still at the Old House?"
"Is it known, then?" faltered Dorothy.
"To nobody but myself, so far as I am aware," replied the gatekeeper.
"And how long have you known it?"
"From the very day of her disappearance, I may say."