She turned her face upon him, all aglow with a noble enthusiasm far above the maiden bashfulness that but now had held it averted, and extended her hand, saying,—
"Come, dear Karl, forget this idle dream. Be once more my brother and my helper. Trust me, no one cares more for you so than I; not Kitty herself."
He took the hand, put it to his lips, then rode on silently.
Dora's kind eyes sought his again and again, but vainly. His face, pale and somewhat stern gave no clew to the feelings within: the mouth, more firmly set than its wont, seemed sealed to love forever.
For the first time in all the interview, Dora found herself troubled and perplexed. Here was nothing to soothe, nothing to combat, nothing to answer or to silence; and her womanly sympathies fluttered about this manly reticence like a humming-bird around a flower frozen into the heart of an iceberg.
At last, she spoke; and her voice had grown almost caressing in its softness:—
"You're not angry with me, Karl?"
He glanced at her, then away.
"Certainly not, Dora. On the contrary, I am much obliged to you."
"Obliged to me!" exclaimed Dora; her feminine pique just touched a trifle. "What, for saying no?"