And, whether or not with an ulterior motive, she had made no claim on him from the first. She had admitted her love for him, but in the same breath had avowed her appreciation of its hopelessness. Even if he hinted at a possible transfer of his allegiance, she had hushed him at once, saying it was impossible for him to do otherwise than to be true to his troth, and that he must forget her, as she should⁠—try to⁠—forget him.

This nobility on her part only made Carleton love her more, and though continuing to admire his beautiful fiancée, his real affection was all for little Dorothy.

She came to dinner that night, soft and lovely in a simple white frock, her pathetic eyes wide open in grief and sorrow, her rosebud mouth drooping and tremulous at the corners.

Fessenden watched her. Without appearing to do so, he noted every expression that flitted across her baby face.

And he was greatly disturbed.