Perhaps never had the self-contained heart of the young girl so framed itself in words; certainly never had Mr. Burroughs so fully read it:  and when she finished, and, neither turning from him nor toward him, steadfastly set her eyes forward, as one who sees mapped out before him the path he is to tread through all the coming years, he took her hand in his with a sudden impulse of tenderness,—­

“Dora, you will love some one yet; and love will make you happy.”

“I have loved two people, and lost them both.  I do not mean to love any one else,” said Dora, quietly withdrawing her hand.

Mr. Burroughs stared at her in astonishment; and, with a directness more natural than conventional, exclaimed,—­

“You have loved twice already!”

“Yes.  Three times, indeed.  I loved my mother and Picter, and they are both dead.  I loved Sunshine and she is lost to me.  O my little Sunshine! who was all to me, and who, I thought”—­

And then-oh rare result of all these days of suffering, and hidden bitterness, and a lingering relinquishment of the sweet and tender hope of her future life!-Dora gave way all at once, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a passion of tears; such tears as women seldom weep; such tears as Dora herself had shed but two or three times in her short life.

Mr. Burroughs sat for a moment, looking at her with a yearning tenderness in his eyes, and then folded her suddenly in his arms, whispering,—­

“Dora, Dora Darling!  I love you, and I will be to you more than all these; and no time nor chance shall rob you of my love, if only you will give me yours instead.”

But Dora repulsed him vehemently, sobbing, “No, no, no! you shall not say it!  I will not hear it!”

“Not say it?  Why not?  It is God’s truth; and you must have known it before to-day.”

“No:  it is only pity, because you think I want to stay, and because—­ No, I will not have it!  I will not hear it!  You are quite wrong, Mr. Burroughs:  you do not know”—­

She stopped in confusion.  She had done sobbing now; but she did not uncover her face, or look up.  Mr. Burroughs regarded her with a strange expression, and then, taking her hand, said softly,—­

“Dora, I have not dared, as you fear that I have, to fancy that you cared for me.  A moment ago, I should not have dared to ask you as I now do; and remember, Dora, that I ask for the solemn truth,—­do you love me?”

Dora tore away her hand indignantly, and attempted to rise.  She had not spoken, or looked at him.  Over the pale face of the lover shot a gleam of triumph.  But he only said,—­

“Dora, it will not be like you to leave me in this way.  It is unjust and untrue.”

“It is you who are unkind and ungenerous,” said the girl passionately.

“Why, Dora?  Why is it ungenerous to ask for a confession of your love, when I have already told you that all my heart is in your hands?”