“Yes,” replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, “I admit that usually they have been quite easy to convince.  I am naturally bold, and I suppose that perhaps—­that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trick about me.”

Shades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of petty vanity, save this man!  But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup of knowledge to the dregs.

“And you have been false to all of these women? she said.

“Ah, well, you know—­the devil take it!  A man can’t be true to a score of women,” replied John.

“I am sure none of them wished you to be true,” the girl answered, restraining her tears with great difficulty.

At that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the manner and shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself in man’s attire.  Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy’s fair form was concealed within the disguise.  He attempted to lift my soft beaver hat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy’s face, but to that she made a decided objection, and John continued:  “By my soul I believe you are a woman.  Your walk”—­Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like a veritable swash-buckler—­“your voice, the curves of your form, all betray you.”  Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her.

“I would know more of you,” said John, and he stepped toward the now interesting stranger.  But she drew away from him, and told him to keep hands off.

“Oh, I am right.  You are a woman,” said John.

Dorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and was willing that John should discover her identity.  At first it had been rare sport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given her no pleasure.  She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned.

“Yes,” she answered, “I admit that I am a—­a woman.  Now I must go.”

“Stay but one moment,” pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry were aroused.  “I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then you may go.”

“I told you that you would want me to remain,” said the girl with a sigh.  She was almost ready to weep.  Then she thought:  “I little dreamed I was coming here for this.  I will carry the disguise a little farther, and will, perhaps, learn enough to—­to break my heart.”

She was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more.

“Come sit by me on this stone,” said John, coaxingly.  The girl complied, and drew the cloak over her knees.

“Tell me why you are here,” he asked.

“To meet a gentleman,” she replied, with low-bent face.

“Tell me your name,” John asked, as he drew my glove from her passive hand.  John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim light saw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon.  Then he lifted it to his lips and said: 

“Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselves with each other?” He placed his arm around the girl’s waist and drew her yielding form toward him.  Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the false beard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leaned forward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain her tears no longer and said:—­