“Please don’t jest on that subject,” said John, seriously.  “I would wish anything, I fear, that would bring me an opportunity to see her, to look upon her face, and to hear her voice.  For her I believe I would sacrifice every one who is dear to me.  One day she shall be mine—­mine at whatever cost—­if she will be.  If she will be.  Ah, there is the rub!  If she will be.  I dare not hope for that.”

“I think,” said I, “that you really have some little cause to hope.”

“You speak in the same tone again.  Malcolm, you do not understand her.  She might love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and mine would never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced to marry me under those conditions.  Do not put the hope into my heart.”

“You only now said she should be yours some day,” I answered.

“So she shall,” returned John, “so she shall.”

“But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow,” said I, my own heart beating with an ardent wish and a new-born hope, “and you may be unable, after all, to see Mistress Dorothy.”

“That is true,” replied John.  “I do not know how she will arrange matters, but I have faith in her ingenuity.”

Well might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a will which usually finds a way.

“If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so.  Perhaps I may be able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy.  What think you of the plan?” I asked.

“If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart.”

And so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town for the purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford’s health, though for me the expedition was full of hazard.

CHAPTER VI

A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN

The next morning broke brightly, but soon clouds began to gather and a storm seemed imminent.  We feared that the gloomy prospect of the sky might keep Dorothy and Madge at home, but long before the appointed hour John and I were at the Royal Arms watching eagerly for the Haddon coach.  At the inn we occupied a room from which we could look into the courtyard, and at the window we stood alternating between exaltation and despair.

When my cogitations turned upon myself—­a palpitating youth of thirty-five, waiting with beating heart for a simple blind girl little more than half my age; and when I remembered how for years I had laughed at the tenderness of the fairest women of the French and Scottish courts—­I could not help saying to myself, “Poor fool! you have achieved an early second childhood.”  But when I recalled Madge in all her beauty, purity, and helplessness, my cynicism left me, and I, who had enjoyed all of life’s ambitious possibilities, calmly reached the conclusion that it is sometimes a blessed privilege