“Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy,” said John.  “The sacrifice would be all on one side.  I should forego nothing, and I should receive all.  You would forego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth having.  I am unworthy—­”

“Not that word, John,” cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with—­well, not with her hand.  “I shall give up a great deal,” she continued, “and I know I shall suffer.  I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time comes, because—­because I feel that I could not live if I did not make it.”

“My father has already consented to our marriage,” said John.  “I told him to-day all that had passed between you and me.  He, of course, was greatly pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would welcome you to his heart.”

“Is your father that—­that sort of a man?” asked Dorothy, half in revery.  “I have always heard—­” and she hesitated.

“I know,” replied John, “that you have heard much evil of my father, but—­let us not talk on that theme.  You will know him some day, and you may judge him for yourself.  When will you go with me, Dorothy?”

“Soon, very soon, John,” she answered.  “You know father intends that I shall marry Lord Stanley. I intend otherwise.  The more father hurries this marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be—­be your—­that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you.”

“You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?” asked John, frightened by the thought.

“Ah,” cried the girl, softly, “you know I told you that God had put into me a great plenty of will.  Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it is, it stands me in good hand now.  You don’t know how much I have of it!  You never will know until I am your—­your—­wife.”  The last word was spoken in a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge on John’s breast.  Of course the magic word “wife” on Dorothy’s lips aroused John to action, and—­but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon and kindly obscured the scene.

“You do not blame me, John,” said Dorothy, “because I cannot go with you to-night?  You do not blame me?”

“Indeed I do not, my goddess,” answered John.  “You will soon be mine.  I shall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to come to me—­ah, then—­” And the kindly cloud came back to the moon.

CHAPTER X

THOMAS THE MAN SERVANT

After a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for her to return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill to the wall back of the terrace garden.