The struggle which raged in her breast was bitter, but short and decisive.  The love she bore to Manners outweighed all other considerations, and casting a last fond look at the scene from which she was about to tear herself, she chose a moment when a peal of laughter at the further end of the room attracted the attention of the company, and slipping behind the tapestry curtain, she pushed the door gently open and stole quietly through.

It was a desperate thing to do, and required all the nerve that Dorothy had at her command.  How the door creaked as she closed it after her.  It must, surely, call attention to the fact that she had passed through.  But no one came, and she flung herself into the arms of her maid, trembling like an aspen leaf with fear.

“Oh, Lettice,” she sobbed, “tell the baron I love him still, and Margaret, too.  Poor Meg! ’tis hard to be severed thus.”

“Hush, my lady,” replied the maid.  “This is no time for weeping.  Master Manners hath been here awaiting thee.  I bade him go, for that were neither safe for him nor thee.”

“You shall join us soon, Lettice.  But, O! give my duty to the baron.  I should care naught were it not for him—­and Meg; but Margaret is happy now.”

“And so shalt thou be soon.  But haste! moments are precious now.  Thy gown and everything has gone, and the brave Master Manners waits for thee alone.  There, go.  Hark! someone is coming,” and throwing a shawl over the graceful shoulders of her mistress, Lettice affectionately embraced her, and watching her hasten down the steps she waited until Dorothy was out of sight before shutting and barring the doors behind her.

As Dorothy passed the ballroom, she could hear distinctly the sounds of merriment within, but she heeded them not.  The lights shone through the open oriel windows right upon her path, but she crept under the shadow of the wall and passed hastily on.  It was a trying time, but she safely passed through it, and quickly found herself at the little latchet gate below the bowling green.  It stood open, and through it she hastened, casting neither a look to the right nor to the left, nor yet behind her, but only anxious that her escape should be unknown.  Down the slope she ran, nor did she stop until she found herself clasped in the fond embrace of her lover, upon the footbridge.

“My darling,” murmured Manners, “thou art come at last.  God bless thee, my love,” and he kissed the tear-stained face over and over again.

“I am ready, John,” she murmured; “but quick, hasten! our start will be short, for they will mark my absence soon.”

Bestowing another shower of kisses upon her, Manners led her across the narrow bridge.  How gaily the water danced and sparkled and made melody amongst the stones!  How the wind sighed sweetly and whispered among the trees, and how the strains of music and the sounds of revelry sounded through the open windows of the Hall.  But of all the sounds that Manners heard there was none which thrilled him so much, or caused him so much happiness, as the sound of Dorothy’s dress as it rustled against the walls of the narrow bridge when they passed through.