He was pacing to and fro in the dark room when the door was opened timidly, and a young, slight girl entered, and stood just within the doorway, gazing at him. The dim light of the single candle hardly reached her, and he could only see large dark eyes, looking black in the wan pallor of her face, which were fastened upon him, partly in terror, and partly in appeal to him, like the pathetic gaze of some dumb creature doubtful of the reception it will receive. She seemed almost to be shrinking away in dread of some unkindness, when he approached her as she stood trembling just inside the door.
"I'm Dorothy," she said, looking up at him with pale anxiety.
"Dorothy Churchill?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, nodding, the tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
"And you have no brothers or sisters?" he said.
"No," she whispered.
He took her hand tenderly in his, and led her to a chair, and sat down beside her, keeping hold of the little brown hand, which trembled in his clasp. She looked like a forlorn, neglected child. The big tears rolled one by one down her cheeks; but she did not dare to move or wipe them away. She seemed as if her spirit was crushed by long and constant unkindness. Sidney drew her near to him as he would have done a little child. His heart was troubled for her, and he wished Margaret could be with him to comfort this lonely and sorrow-stricken girl.
"You loved your father!" he said, after a pause.
"Not much," she answered; "he frightened me."
"Didn't he love you?" he asked.