“He may purpose to do so secretly, as in the case of the Robsart girl,” returned Sir George.  “Go, Malcolm, and ask her if he is willing to make her his wife before the world.”

I was glad of an opportunity for a word with Dorothy, so I hastily went to her.  I told her of the Leicester phase of the situation, and I also told her that her father had asked me if the man whom she loved was willing to make her his wife before the world.

“Tell my father,” said she, “that I will be no man’s wife save before all the world.  A man who will not acknowledge me never shall possess me.”

I went back to Sir George and delivered the message word for word.

“She is a strange, strong girl, isn’t she, Malcolm?” said her father.

“She is her father’s child,” I replied.

“By my spurs she is.  She should have been a man,” said Sir George, with a twinkle of admiration in his eyes.  He admired a good fight even though he were beaten in it.

It is easy to be good when we are happy.  Dorothy, the great disturber, was both.  Therefore, peace reigned once more in Haddon Hall.

Letters frequently passed between John and Dorothy by the hand of Jennie Faxton, but John made no attempt to meet his sweetheart.  He and Dorothy were biding their time.

A fortnight passed during which Cupid confined his operations to Madge and myself.  For her sweet sake he was gracious and strewed our path with roses.  I should delight to tell you of our wooing.  She a fair young creature of eighteen, I a palpitating youth of thirty-five.  I should love to tell you of Madge’s promise to be my wife, and of the announcement in the Hall of our betrothal; but there was little of interest in it to any one save ourselves, and I fear lest you should find it very sentimental and dull indeed.  I should love to tell you also of the delightful walks which Madge and I took together along the sweet old Wye and upon the crest of Bowling Green; but above all would I love to tell you of the delicate rose tints that came to her cheek, and how most curiously at times, when my sweetheart’s health was bounding, the blessed light of day would penetrate the darkened windows of her eyes, and how upon such occasions she would cry out joyously, “Oh, Malcolm, I can dimly see.”  I say I should love to tell you about all those joyous happenings, but after all I fear I should shrink from doing so in detail, for the feelings and sayings of our own hearts are sacred to us.  It is much easier to tell of the love affairs of others.

A fortnight or three weeks passed quietly in Haddon Hall.  Sir George had the notion firmly fixed in his head that the man whom Dorothy had been meeting held honorable intentions toward the girl.  He did her the justice to believe that by reason of her strength and purity she would tolerate none other.  At times he felt sure that the man was Leicester, and again he flouted the thought as impossible.  If