Dorry laughed a happy little laugh, all by herself.
"Besides," she thought, as she laid the mirror away, "we are alike, in our natures, and in our ways and in loving each other, and I don't care a bit what anybody says to the contrary."
Thus braced, she drew her chair closer to the table and began a letter to Donald. A vague consciousness that by this time every one in the house must be in bed and asleep deepened her sense of being alone with Donald as she wrote. It seemed that he read every word as soon as it fell upon the paper, and that in the stillness of the room she almost could hear him breathe.
It was a long letter. At any other time, Dorry's hand would have wearied with the mere exercise of writing so many pages; but there was so much to tell that she took no thought of fatigue. It was enough that she was pouring out her heart to Donald.
"I know now," the letter went on to say, "why you have gone to Europe, and why I was not told the errand. Dear, dear Donald! And you knew it all before you went away; and that is why you sometimes seemed silent and troubled, and why you were so patient and good and gentle with me, even when I teased you and made sport of you! Uncle told me this afternoon all that he has to tell, and I have assured him that I am Dorry, and nobody else, and that he need not be bothered about it any more (though you know, Don, I cannot help feeling awfully. It's so dreadful to think of us all being so mixed up. The very idea of my not being Dorry makes me miserable. Yet, if I were anybody else, would I not be the first to know it? Yes, Donald, whether you find proof or not, you dear, good, noble old fellow, I am your sister—I feel it in my very bones—and you are my brother. Nobody on earth can make me believe you are not. That dreadful man said in his letter that it was to George Reed's interest that I should be known as Dorothy Reed. Oh, Don, as if it were not to my interest, too, and yours! But if it is not so, if it really is true that I am not Dorothy, but Delia, why, I must be Delia in earnest, and do my duty to my—her mother's brother. He writes that his wife is sick, and that he is miserable, with no comforts at home and no one to care whether he is good or bad. So, you see, I must go and leave you and Uncle, if I am Delia. And, Don, there's another thing, though it's the least part of it: if I am Delia, I am poor, and it is right that I should earn my living, though you and Uncle should both oppose it, for I am no relation to any one,—I mean any one here,—and it would not be honorable for me to stay here in luxury.
"I can see your eyes flash at this, dear brother, or perhaps you will say I am foolish to think of such things yet a while. So I am, may be, but I must talk to you of all that is in my thoughts. It is very lonely here to-night. The rain is pouring against the windows, and it seems like November; and, do you know, I dread to-morrow, for I am afraid I may show in some way to dear Uncle George that I am not absolutely certain he is any relation to me. I feel so strange! Even Jack and Liddy do not know who I really am. Wouldn't Josie and Ed be surprised if they knew about things? I wish they did. I wish every one did, for secrecy is odious.
"Donald, dear, this is an imbecile way of talking. I dare say I shall tear up my letter in the morning. No, I shall not. It belongs to you, for it is just what your loving old Dorry is thinking this night.
"Good-night, my brother. In my letter, sent last Saturday, I told you how delighted Uncle and I were with your descriptions of London and Liverpool.
"I show Uncle your letters to me, but he does not return the compliment; that is, he has read to me only parts of those you have written to him. May be he will let me read them through now, since I know 'the important business.' Keep up a good heart, Don, and do not mind my whining a little in this letter. Now that I am going to sign my name, I feel as if every doubt I have expressed is almost wicked. So, good-night again, dear Donald, and ever so much love from your own faithful sister,
Dorry.