“’Tis well.  He runs a fearful risk.  Edward or Thomas Stanley would as lief kill him as they would a dog did they but recognise him again.”

“He has been ill, and he is deadly thin.”

“Poor John.  He tells me so.  I understand all now.”

“That will disguise him better than aught else, he said.”

“Perhaps it is so, but ’tis a cruel disguise,” said Dorothy sympathetically.  “Did he give thee any word for me?”

“Naught, save that I was to tell thee he would write anon, as he could not see thee.  He will hide the letters in the tree that Father Philip fell against; there is a hole in it, and he has shown it me.  But you will see him soon; he wears a peacock’s feather in his cap.”

“I should know him well enough without a sign,” said Dorothy decisively, “and he were best without it, for it might lead him into peril.”

“Father will send him with the logs,” pursued Lettice.  “He came but yesternight.”

“Hush, Lettice, is not that Lady Maude coming?”

“Gramercy no, I hope not, or it might fare ill with us,” said the maid, “but hide the letter, for the love of heaven do,” she added quickly as the footsteps quickly approached.

Quick as thought Doll transferred the missive into her pocket, and, with a guilty look which she vainly strove to hide, she turned to brave Lady Vernon.

Lady Vernon it was, but she passed hurriedly along the corridor, and having escaped thus luckily so far, they waited not to tempt fortune again, but bidding each other an affectionate “Good-night,” Lettice withdrew, and left Dorothy alone with her newly-gotten joy.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A narrow escape.

  The moon in pearly light may steep
    The still blue air;
  The rose hath ceased to droop and weep,
    For lo! her joy is there. 
  He sings to her, and o’er the trees
    She hears his sweet notes swim,
  The world may weary—­she but hears
    Her love, and hears but him.

  P.J.  Bailey.

John Manners found life uncomfortable enough in the new condition of life in which he had placed himself.  The work was hard, and the fare was rough.  There was no difference between his lot and the lot of those around him, and yet, in spite of this, he was looked at askance by his new companions, while to crown all, he found very few opportunities of meeting or seeing his beloved Dorothy.

Often had he made arrangements to meet her at different trysting places, but, just as often had he waited patiently, only to be disappointed by the non-arrival of his lady-love.  In this sorry plight he had been obliged to content himself with sending messages to her through Lettice, whom he constantly met at her father’s hut; or, failing her, as a last resource he fell back upon communicating with his lover through the unsatisfactory medium of the tree, where, not unfrequently, as he placed a fresh note in he found the previous one untouched.