Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling.  She had also found health and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her a slight improvement in vision.  She had always been able to distinguish sunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimly to discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change for the better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart.  She said she owed it all to me.  A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and a plumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beauty a touch of the material.  Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can adequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her.  You must not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge.  On the contrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind.  Neither at that time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the great theme.  I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love for my tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and she impulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them for the last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to me than all else in life.

“Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?” she asked.

“He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife,” I returned.

“And you?” she queried.

“I did so.”

Instantly the girl withdrew her hands from mine and stepped back from me.  Then I had another revelation.  I knew what she meant and felt.  Her hands told me all, even had there been no expression in her movement and in her face.

“Dorothy refused,” I continued, “and her father desired to force her into compliance.  I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir George ordered me to leave his house.”

After a moment of painful silence Madge said:—­“I do not wonder that you should wish to marry Dorothy.  She—­she must be very beautiful.”

“I do not wish to marry Dorothy,” said I. I heard a slight noise back of me, but gave it no heed.  “And I should not have married her had she consented.  I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised Sir George that I would ask her to be my wife.  Sir George had always been my friend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew he would be my enemy.  He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he becomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me.  I asked Dorothy to help me, but she would not listen to my plan.”

“—­and now she begs your forgiveness,” cried Dorothy, as she ran weeping to me, and took my hand most humbly.

“Dorothy!  Dorothy!” I exclaimed.

“What frightful evil have I brought upon you?” said she.  “Where can you go?  What will you do?”

“I know not,” I answered.  “I shall probably go to the Tower of London when Queen Elizabeth’s officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George.  But I will try to escape to France.”