till. Bitter tears rose to the burning eyes--tears that fell like
rain, and seemed to take away the sharpest sting of her pain.

With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undisturbed. The
bitter sobbing ceased at last. Dora said farewell to her love. She lay
white and exhausted, but the anger and passion had died away.

"Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly. "I will serve you,
and obey you. I an content, more than content, with my own home. But
for my little children, let all be as it was years ago."

When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, and Dora had
gone into the pretty white room prepared for her, Ralph rose to take
his leave.

"Surely," said Thorne, "you are not leaving us. You promised to stay a
whole week."

"I know," said the young farmer; "but you have many to think for now,
Mr. Thorne. The time will come when the poor, wearied girl sleeping
above us will be Lady Earle. Her husband knew I loved her. No shadow
even of suspicion must rest upon her. While your daughter remains
under your roof, I shall not visit you again."

Dora's father knew the young man was right.

"Let me see the little ones sometimes," continued Ralph; "and if large
parcels of toys and books find their way to the Elms, you will know who
sent them. But I must not come in Dora's way; she is no loner Dora
Thorne."

As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly through the long gray
fields, he wished that Dora had never seen Ronald Earle.

Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended. When the warm August sun
peeped into her room on the following morning, she did not see it
shine; when the children crept to her side and called for mamma, she
was deaf to their little voices. The tired head tossed wearily to and
fro, the burning eyes would not close. A raging fever had her in its
fierce clutches. When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the children's cries,
came in, Dora did not know her, but cried out loudly that she was a
false woman, who had lured her husband from her.

They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long and fierce.
During the hours of delirium, Mrs. Thorne gleaned sorrowfully some
portions of her daughter's story. She cried out incessantly against a
fair woman--one Valentine--whom Ronald loved--cried in scorn and anger.
Frequently she was in a garden, behind some trees; then confronting
some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she did not believe it; then
hiding her face