“I am sure they’re very kind to me,” said Dora, “and I am very happy⁠—”

“Well! But my dearest life!” said I, “you might be very happy, and yet be treated rationally.”

Dora gave me a reproachful look⁠—the prettiest look!⁠—and then began to sob, saying, if I didn’t like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be engaged to her? And why didn’t I go away, now, if I couldn’t bear her?

What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I doted on her, after that!

“I am sure I am very affectionate,” said Dora; “you oughtn’t to be cruel to me, Doady!”

“Cruel, my precious love! As if I would⁠—or could⁠—be cruel to you, for the world!”

“Then don’t find fault with me,” said Dora, making a rosebud of her mouth; “and I’ll be good.”