While journeying to Bowling Green Gate, John had formulated many true and beautiful sentiments of a personal nature which he intended expressing to Dorothy; but when the opportunity came for him to speak, the weather, his horse, Dorothy’s mare Dolcy, the queens of England and Scotland were the only subjects on which he could induce his tongue to perform, even moderately well.

Dorothy listened attentively while John on the opposite side of the gate discoursed limpingly on the above-named themes; and although in former interviews she had found those topics quite interesting, upon that occasion she had come to Bowling Green Gate to listen to something else and was piqued not to hear it.  After ten or fifteen minutes she said demurely:—­

“I may not remain here longer.  I shall be missed at the Hall.  I regained my liberty but yesterday, and father will be suspicious of me during the next few days.  I must be watchful and must have a care of my behavior.”

John summoned his wits and might have spoken his mind freely had he not feared to say too much.  Despite Dorothy’s witchery, honor, conscience, and prudence still bore weight with him, and they all dictated that he should cling to the shreds of his resolution and not allow matters to go too far between him and this fascinating girl.  He was much in love with her; but Dorothy had reached at a bound a height to which he was still climbing.  Soon John, also, was to reach the pinnacle whence honor, conscience, and prudence were to be banished.

“I fear I must now leave you,” said Dorothy, as darkness began to gather.

“I hope I may soon see you again,” said John.

“Sometime I will see you if—­if I can,” she answered with downcast eyes.  “It is seldom I can leave the Hall alone, but I shall try to come here at sunset some future day.”  John’s silence upon a certain theme had given offence.

“I cannot tell you how greatly I thank you,” cried John.

“I will say adieu,” said Dorothy, as she offered him her hand through the bars of the gate.  John raised the hand gallantly to his lips, and when she had withdrawn it there seemed no reason for her to remain.  But she stood for a moment hesitatingly.  Then she stooped to reach into her pocket while she daintily lifted the skirt of her gown with the other hand and from the pocket drew forth a great iron key.

“I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate—­and come to—­to this side.  I had great difficulty in taking it from the forester’s closet, where it has been hanging for a hundred years or more.”

She showed John the key, returned it to her pocket, made a courtesy, and moved slowly away, walking backward.

“Mistress Vernon,” cried John, “I beg you to let me have the key.”

“It is too late, now,” said the girl, with downcast eyes.  “Darkness is rapidly falling, and I must return to the Hall.”

John began to climb the gate, but she stopped him.  He had thrown away his opportunity.