Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heard him say something to their father, who was passing on toward his own apartments.
Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some wool slippers and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stole softly across the passage to her brother's room.
The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small hands to shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came to answer her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, and the rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, he drew her within the room and closed the door.
"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely make yourself ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavy silver candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsome face, now looking all the darker from contrast with his snowy linen—for he was in his shirt-sleeves.
He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her hands from before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child—what is troubling you?"
"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." And two great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the rounded cheeks, whose bloom was paler than he had ever seen it.
"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he asked gently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she did not speak. "I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you in tears; it hurts me."
"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't want to hurt you."
He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he said softly: "Is it that you are jealous of me, or of—Mary? Is it that you think I cannot love her and love you as well?"