“Sit down, auntie, and be quiet, and I will tell you all about it,” replied Dora, calmly; intensely relieved that her secret was out, and a secret no longer.
She led Madame Alroyd to an easy-chair, then bringing a footstool she sat down at her feet. She laid her head lovingly in her lap, and then repeated the story of her marriage, her love for Robert, how it had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. And this was the reason why she had persisted in coming to be present at his graduation.
She showed her the locket, which she had always worn next to her heart, and Madame Alroyd felt, as she gazed upon the honest and handsome face of our hero, that treachery or fickleness could not lurk in the heart of one who possessed such truthful eyes, and such a frank, open countenance.
She had listened in speechless amazement to the strange tale, and when Dora finished, she asked in a husky voice:
“Why have you never told me this before, Dora?”
“I didn’t dare to, auntie. I feared to displease you, and above all, I feared to be ridiculed about it. I thought you would say just as everybody else did, who knew it, that ‘it was a foolish, childish affair,’ and try to persuade me to consent to a separation.”
Dora buried her burning face in the folds of madam’s dress, and sobbed afresh.
Her aunt laid her hand fondly upon that golden-crowned head, and stroked it tenderly, while she sat for a few minutes in deep and troubled thought. At last she said:
“And do you love him now, darling, well enough to consider yourself bound to him for life?”
“Oh! yes, auntie, only—I am afraid he has forgotten his love for me.”