“And now our suffering is over, Dorothy.”

“Oh, don’t say that, my dear!” she cried, “but let us rather make a prayer to God.”

Down she got on her knees close beside me, and I took both of her hands between my own.  But presently I sought for a riband that was around my neck, and drew out a locket.  Within it were pressed those lilies of the valley I had picked for her long years gone by on my birthday.  And she smiled, though the tears shone like dewdrops on her lashes.

“When Jack brought you to us for dead, we did not take it off, dear,” she said gently.  “I wept with sorrow and joy at sight of it, for I remembered you as you were when you picked those flowers, and how lightly I had thought of leaving you as I wound them into my hair.  And then, when I had gone aboard the ‘Annapolis’, I knew all at once that I would have given anything to stay, and I thought my heart would break when we left the Severn cliffs behind.  But that, sir, has been a secret until this day,” she added, smiling archly through her tears.

She took out one of the withered flowers, and then as caressingly put it back beside the others, and closed the locket.

“I forbade Dr. Barry to take it off, Richard, when you lay so white and still.  I knew then that you had been true to me, despite what I had heard.  And if you were to die—­” her voice broke a little as she passed her hand over my brow, “if you were to die, my single comfort would have been that you wore it then.”

“And you heard rumours of me, Dorothy?”

“George Worthington and others told me how ably you managed Mr. Swain’s affairs, and that you had become of some weight with the thinking men of the province.  Richard, I was proud to think that you had the courage to laugh at disaster and to become a factor.  I believe,” she said shyly, “twas that put the cooking into my head, and gave me courage.  And when I heard that Patty was to marry you, Heaven is my witness that I tried to be reconciled and think it for the best.  Through my own fault I had lost you, and I knew well she would make you a better wife than I.”

“And you would not even let Jack speak for me!”

“Dear Jack!” she cried; “were it not for Jack we should not be here, Richard.”

“Indeed, Dolly, two people could scarce fall deeper in debt to another than are you and I to my Lord Viscount,” I answered, with feeling.  “His honesty and loyalty to us both saved you for me at the very outset.”

“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “I believed you dead.  And I should have married him, I think.  For Dr. Courtenay had sent me that piece from the Gazette telling of the duel between you over Patty Swain—­”

“Dr. Courtenay sent you that!” I interrupted.