"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost convulsively.
"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss the troubled face.
There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and the sputtering of the sap from the logs.
Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with wavering, and was now resolved to speak.
"Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemed filled with fear again, "you can tell no one,—no living person,—not even Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?"
"Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committing herself.
"What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply.
"Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and told me to keep for you,—a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?"
"No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then she cried in terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell him or my father of the matter?"
"No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited until you were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself."