“I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you,” said the girl, whisperingly.  Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might look into his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers.  “I am all yours.  But oh, John, I cannot wait—­I cannot!  Do not ask me to wait.  It would kill me.  I wear the golden heart you gave me, John,” she continued, as she nestled closer in his embrace.  “I wear the golden heart always.  It is never from me, even for one little moment.  I bear it always upon my heart, John.  Here it is.”  She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissed it.  Then she pressed it to his lips, and said:  “I kiss it twenty times in the day and in the night; ay, a hundred times.  I do not know how often; but now I kiss your real heart, John,” and she kissed his breast, and then stood tiptoe to lift her lips to his.

There was no room left now in John’s heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernon was his own forever and forever.  She had convinced him beyond the reach of fear or doubt.  John forgot the lockless gate.  He forgot everything but Dorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they were unconscious.  They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearing a long blast from the forester’s bugle, and John immediately retreated through the gate.

Dorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stone bench against the Haddon side of the wall.  She quickly assumed an attitude of listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by, doubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate to rest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone.

Dorothy’s attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was her gown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George’s form rose above the crest of Bowling Green Hill.  In a few minutes he was standing in front of his daughter, red with anger.  Dorothy’s face wore a look of calm innocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself, notwithstanding that great man’s experience with the sex.  It did more to throw Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.

“Who has been with you?” demanded Sir George, angrily.

“When, father?” queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against the wall.

“Now, this afternoon.  Who has been with you?  Ben Shaw said that a man was here.  He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since.”

That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace of surprise was visible in her manner or in her voice.  She turned listlessly and brushed a dry leaf from her gown.  Then she looked calmly up into her father’s face and said laconically, but to the point:—­

“Ben lied.”  To herself she said, “Ben shall also suffer.”

“I do not believe that Ben lied,” said Sir George.  “I, myself, saw a man go away from here.”