lovingly about her soft, round throat; her lashes, long and black, rested on her cheeks.
"Do you know why I refused him?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
"Only because you did not love him," I responded, with a vague fear in my heart.
She came behind me, kissed the top of my head gently, and whispered,—
"Because I love some one else."
My heart gave one wild leap, and then sank. It was true then,—my worst fears were realized. Judith stood there, waiting for me to speak. I hesitated one instant, then took possession of the white hand which she had laid timidly on my shoulder, and put it to my lips as I replied,—
"That is right, Judith. Be true to him if he is worthy of you."
She burst into a passion of tears, but soon recovered herself; and, with as few words as possible, I sent her away to dress. Then I sat and looked at my small image in the glass.
"Dorris Romilly," I soliloquized, "don't make yourself disagreeable. Help the dear child to be as happy as possible; be unselfish. You dislike George without any reason: try to like him. Because your romance had but a short existence, and ended in sorrow which nearly broke your heart, do not begrudge others their happiness. Conquer yourself, Dorris, conquer yourself!"
Still the image looked back at me with sad eyes.
