Richard, with whom my story has really to do, but for the understanding of whom it is necessary that the character and mental position of his father should in some measure be set forth, proved an apt pupil, and was soon possessed with such a passion for justice and liberty, as embodied in the political doctrines now presented for his acceptance, that it was impossible for him to understand how any honest man could be of a different mind.  No youth, indeed, of simple and noble nature, as yet unmarred by any dominant phase of selfishness, could have failed to catch fire from the enthusiasm of such a father, an enthusiasm glowing yet restrained, wherein party spirit had a less share than principle—­which, in relation to such a time, is to say much.  Richard’s heart swelled within him at the vistas of grandeur opened by his father’s words, and swelled yet higher when he read to him passages from the pamphlet to which I have referred.  It seemed to him, as to most young people under mental excitement, that he had but to tell the facts of the case to draw all men to his side, enlisting them in the army destined to sweep every form of tyranny, and especially spiritual usurpation and arrogance, from the face of the earth.

Being one who took everybody at the spoken word, Richard never thought of seeking Dorothy again at their former place of meeting.  Nor, in the new enthusiasm born in him, did his thoughts for a good many days turn to her so often, or dwell so much upon her, as to cause any keen sense of their separation.  The flood of new thoughts and feelings had transported him beyond the ignorant present.  In truth, also, he was a little angry with Dorothy for showing a foolish preference for the church party, so plainly in the wrong was it!  And what could she know about the question by his indifference to which she had been so scandalised, but to which he had been indifferent only until rightly informed thereon!  If he had ever given her just cause to think him childish, certainly she should never apply the word to him again!  If he could but see her, he would soon convince her—­indeed he must see her—­for the truth was not his to keep, but to share!  It was his duty to acquaint her with the fact that the parliament was the army of God, fighting the great red dragon, one of whose seven heads was prelacy, the horn upon it the king, and Laud its crown.  He wanted a stroll—­he would take the path through the woods and the shrubbery to the old sun-dial.  She would not be there, of course, but he would walk up the pleached alley and call at the house.

Reasoning thus within himself one day, he rose and went.  But, as he approached the wood, Dorothy’s great mastiff, which she had reared from a pup with her own hand, came leaping out to welcome him, and he was prepared to find her not far off.

When he entered the yew-circle, there she stood leaning on the dial, as if, like old Time, she too had gone to sleep there, and was dreaming ancient dreams over again.  She did not move at the first sounds of his approach; and when at length, as he stood silent by her side, she lifted her head, but without looking at him, he saw the traces of tears on her cheeks.  The heart of the youth smote him.