“If the man is he whom I believe him to be he can have no true purpose with you.  Tell me, my child—­the truth will bring no reproaches from me—­tell me, has he misused you in any way?”

“No, father, before God, he has been a true gentleman to me.”

The poor old man struggled for a moment with his emotions; then tears came to his eyes and he covered his face with his hands as he started to leave the room.

Dorothy ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck.  Those two, father and child, were surely of one blood as shown in the storms of violence and tenderness by which their natures were alternately swept.

“Father, you may believe me; you do believe me,” said Dorothy.  “Furthermore, I tell you that this man has treated me with all courtesy, nay, more:  he has treated me with all the reverence he would have shown our queen.”

“He can have no true purpose with you, Doll,” said Sir George, who felt sure that Leicester was the man.

“But he has, father, a true purpose with me.  He would make me his wife to-day would I consent.”

“Why then does he not seek you openly?”

“That he cannot do,” Dorothy responded hesitatingly.

“Tell me, Doll, who is the man?” asked Sir George.

I was standing behind him and Dorothy’s face was turned toward me.  She hesitated, and I knew by her expression that she was about to tell all.  Sir George, I believe, would have killed her had she done so.  I placed my finger on my lips and shook my head.

Dorothy said:  “That I cannot tell you, father.  You are wasting words in asking me.”

“Is it because of his wish that you refuse to tell me his name?” asked Sir George.  I nodded my head.

“Yes, father,” softly responded Dorothy in the old dangerous, dulcet tones.

“That is enough; I know who the man is.”

Dorothy kissed her father.  He returned the caress, much to my surprise, and left the room.

When I turned to follow Sir George I glanced toward Dorothy.  Her eyes were like two moons, so full were they of wonderment and inquiry.

I stopped with Sir George in his room.  He was meditative and sad.

“I believe my Doll has told me the truth,” he said.

“Have no doubt of it, Sir George,” I replied.

“But what good intent can Leicester have toward my girl?” he asked.

“Of that I cannot say,” I replied; “but my dear cousin, of this fact be sure:  if he have evil intent toward Dorothy, he will fail.”

“But there was the Robsart girl,” he replied.

“Ay,” said I, “but Dorothy Vernon is not Amy Robsart.  Have no fear of your daughter.  She is proof against both villany and craft.  Had she been in Mistress Robsart’s place, Leicester would not have deserted her.  Dorothy is the sort of woman men do not desert.  What say you to the fact that Leicester might wish to make her his wife?”