Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them. No wonder that she should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she should feel sure that Marion’s heart had been given away; though when, and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits of the camp.
“Marion!” said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not to be overheard, “you are not happy to-day?”
“You silly child! what makes you think so?”
“How can I help it? In your looks—”
“What of my looks, Lora?”
“Dear Marion, don’t mind me. It’s because I dread that others may notice them. There’s Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell. She has been keeping her eyes on you like a cat upon a mouse. Cousin! do try to look different, and don’t give them something to talk about: for you know that’s just what Dorothy Dayrell would desire.”
“Look different! How do I look, pray?”
“Ah! I needn’t tell you how? You know how you feel; and from that you may tell how you look.”
“Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain. What is it in my appearance that has struck you? Tell me, chit!”
“You want me to be candid, Marion?”