We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand without an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the happiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to lave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my rhapsodies must have an end.

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had lent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.

She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and turned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against the oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with it and had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her curiosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. I whispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and then I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. I noiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place in Dorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filled me with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in the shadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self, Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.

"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones that certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.

"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.

"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy.

"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford.

"Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history."

"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times."

There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought Dorothy into trouble.

"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?" asked Aunt Dorothy, perhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already for Malcolm No. 2.

"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps--ah--perhaps I prefer the--the ah--the middle portion."

"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy,"

returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always thinking--the ladies, the ladies."

"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self responded in a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused so much of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mind cannot be better employed than--"

"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep in practice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise on."

"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy, full of the spirit of mischief.

"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon," retorted Aunt Dorothy with a toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it, one little farthing's worth."

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit than Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.

"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford."

"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have been reading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy.

Do you remember the cause of her death?"

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to admit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.

"You did not read the book with attention," replied Lady Crawford. "Sir Philip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty."

"That disease will never depopulate England," was the answer that came from my garments, much to my chagrin.

"Sir Malcolm," exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallant a speech from your lips."--"And," thought I, "she never will hear its like from me."

"Modesty," continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by young women nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but--"

"I am sure it is not," interrupted Dorothy.

"But," continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest and seemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in ungallant jest."

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.

"Do you not," said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to be modest, well-behaved maidens?"

"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, but as to Dorothy--well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her than death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does not kill. Dorothy has it mildly," then under her breath, "if at all."

The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment it caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.

"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford.

"She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."

"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me great pain and grief."

"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.

"But, Malcolm," continued the old lady, putting down her book and turning with quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is the man with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"

"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely a modest girl would not act as she does."

"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, you know nothing of women."

"Spoken with truth," thought I.

The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with each other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the window. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I could help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I feign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am greatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."

"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I am sure she is fathoms deep in love."

"Nothing," said Lady Crawford, "but a great pa.s.sion would have impelled her to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty, won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her rich domain."

"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm, sighing in a manner entirely new to him.

"No," answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. I wonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry Lord Stanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started for Derby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within a day or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, has surrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between her and my brother."

Dorothy tossed her head expressively.

"It is a good match," continued Lady Crawford, "a good match, Malcolm. I pity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do it faithfully."

"My dear Lady Crawford," said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelings do great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your niece is a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? Now I am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, see her lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry the man of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself.

Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape."