“Everybody be off to bed,” said Sir George.  “Ben Shaw, see that the braziers are all blackened.”

Dorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter’s room, and Sir George and I entered after them.  He was evidently softened in heart by the night’s adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made.

A selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures.  A generous heart grows tender.  Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he had done to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends.  The active evil in all Sir George’s wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he was in the right.  Many a man has gone to hell backward—­with his face honestly toward heaven.  Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scene wherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part.

“Doll,” said Sir George, “I thought you were at the stile with a man.  I was mistaken.  It was the Faxton girl.  I beg your pardon, my daughter.  I did you wrong.”

“You do me wrong in many matters, father,” replied Dorothy.

“Perhaps I do,” her father returned, “perhaps I do, but I mean for the best.  I seek your happiness.”

“You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness,” she replied.

“Whom God loveth He chasteneth,” replied Sir George, dolefully.

“That manner of loving may be well enough for God,” retorted Dorothy with no thought of irreverence, “but for man it is dangerous.  Whom man loves he should cherish.  A man who has a good, obedient daughter—­one who loves him—­will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak to her, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that love which is her right.  A man has no right to bring a girl into this world and then cause her to suffer as you—­as you—­”

She ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence—­tears.  One would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night.

“But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for your happiness,” said Sir George.

“There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surer knowledge than the oldest man living.  Solomon was wise because he had so many wives from whom he could absorb wisdom.”

“Ah, well!” answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, “you will have the last word.”

“Confess, father,” she retorted quickly, “that you want the last word yourself.”

“Perhaps I do want it, but I’ll never have it,” returned Sir George; “kiss me, Doll, and be my child again.”

“That I will right gladly,” she answered, throwing her arms about her father’s neck and kissing him with real affection.  Then Sir George said good night and started to leave.  At the door he stopped, and stood for a little time in thought.

“Dorothy,” said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, “I relieve you of your duty as a guard over Doll.  She may go and come when she chooses.”