But it seemed impossible to get hold of Dorothy. She was shy, silent, and diffident, and clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Margaret. There was a speedy and startling transformation in her appearance as soon as Margaret could procure suitable dresses for her, and have her abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becomingly. Margaret saw no religion in slovenly or peculiar dress; and she took pleasure in seeing everything and every person appear at their best. Dorothy hardly recognized herself in a week's time; and the change in her own appearance fitting her for her surroundings made her feel more quickly at home; but she was very shy with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of them could become intimate with the quiet, retiring girl. Dorothy, like most girls, was more afraid of Phyllis than of anyone else; the very grace of her manner, conventional rather than natural, made her shrink within herself, and feel awkward and homely.
But there was no such feeling in Margaret's benign presence. The neglected girl's nature opened and unfolded under her influence like a flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sympathy between them on religious points. Dorothy had had no training except that of a constant and simple study of the Bible. Her father had allowed her but few books out of his large library, but those he had given to her she knew almost by heart. She was studying diligently now under Margaret's direction, with the aid of teachers who came down from London to give her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an intense charm for Margaret; there had been nothing like it in Phyllis's training, which had naturally been left in her mother's hands. It was a never flagging delight to watch the girl growing day by day more intelligent and more beautiful in her presence; blossoming out into smiles, and caresses, and half timid merriment. It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to Margaret's heart when she heard Dorothy's first laugh.
"How much you think of Dorothy!" said Sidney to her one evening some months later, as they sat together on the terrace with Philip beside them.
"I cannot tell you how dear she is to me," answered Margaret.
"But not more than Phyllis—not as much as Phyllis?" said Philip jealously.
"Not more or less," she replied, "but differently. Dorothy is more like my own child. Phyllis has her father and mother; Dorothy has no one nearer to her than me. She has never been cared for before, and she returns my care with the simplest love."
"But Phyllis loves you as much as this child can do," persisted Philip.
"Not much more a child than Phyllis," said his father; "she is not two years younger."
"But she is only a schoolgirl," put in Philip, "a mere child compared with Phyllis. Still if she is in love with you and my mother I can overlook all her defects."
"Phyllis is not in love with me," replied Margaret, laughing, "and I admit that makes a difference. We are blind to the faults of those who are in love with us. 'It is not granted to man to love and to be wise,' I suppose. But don't be afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love Phyllis less because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our hearts into slices, and give piece after piece away till there is nothing left. Rather every true love makes all our other love deeper."