You are the dearest friend I have in the world, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had.
It almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn of what I have done--that which I just told to you." She walked beside me meditatively for a moment and said, "To-morrow I will return Sir John's gift and I will never see him again." I felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance; but I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she needed to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she said:-- "I have no means of returning the heart.

I must see him once more and I will give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can see him never again." She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish telling her intention.

Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?
Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thought she was honest when she said she would take it to him.
"Dorothy," said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spoken of--" She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love," for she interrupted me.
"N-o, but surely he knows.

And I--I think--at least I hope with all my heart that--" "I will take the heart to Sir John," said I, interrupting her angrily, "and you need not see him again.

He has acted like a fool and a knave.