"I don't know what you say," he said, half angrily. "Can't I see
her?"

"She's in the north parlor, I s'pose," muttered the black woman; and
she stood aside and let Burr Gordon pass in, following him with her
hostile eyes as he opened the north-parlor door. Dorothy Fair sat
with her embroidery-work at the mahogany table, whereon a whole
branch of candles burned in silver sticks. She was working a muslin
collar for her own adornment, and she set a fine stitch in a sprig
before she rose up, either to prove her self-command to herself or to
Burr Gordon. She had also held herself quiet during the delay in the
hall.

Dorothy Fair came of a gentle and self-controlled race of New England
ministers; but now her young heart carried her away. She stood up;
her embroidery, with her scissors and bodkin, slid to the ground, and
she came forward with her fair curls dropping around a face pink and
smiling openly with love like a child's, and was, seemingly half of
her own accord, in Burr Gordon's arms with her lips meeting his; and
then they sat down side by side on the north-parlor sofa.

Dorothy Fair's face was very sweet to see; her blue eyes and her soft
lips were innocent and fond under her lover's gaze. Her little white
hand clung to his like a baby's. There was a sweet hollow under her
chin, above her fine lace collar. Her soft, fair curls smelt in his
face of roses and lavender. The utter daintiness of this maiden
Dorothy Fair was a separate charm and a fascination full of subtle
and innocent earthiness to the senses of a lover. She appealed to his
selfish delight like a sweet-scented flower, like a pink or a rose.