The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below, albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge, and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands.
The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the candles.
"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.
"No—no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary—if only I might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.
Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she were a little girl.
Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of its own passion.
Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.
"Dorothy," she whispered—"dear little Dot!"
"Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible.
"When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust me any longer?"