"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."
At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's neck.
"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"
Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.
Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned face upon which the moonbeams were resting.
"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."
"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was crying once more.
"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."
"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I do or say."
"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherly fashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. And now," she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, this very minute. I want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."