OUT OF EVIL

'Twas about candlelight when I awoke, and Dorothy was sitting alone
beside me. Her fingers were resting upon my arm, and she greeted me with
a smile all tenderness.

"And does my Lord feel better after--after his excitement to-day?" she
asked.

"Dorothy, you have made me a whole man again. I could walk to Windsor
and back."

"You must have your dinner, or your supper first, sir," she answered
gayly, "and do you rest quiet until I come back to feed you. Oh, Richard
dear," she cried, "how delightful that you should be the helpless one,
and dependent on me!"

As I lay listening for the rustle of her gown, the minutes dragged
eternally. Every word and gesture of the morning passed before my mind,
and the touch of her lips still burned on my forehead. At last, when I
was getting fairly restless, the distant tones of a voice, deep and
reverberating, smote upon my ear, jarring painfully some long-forgotten
chord. That voice belonged to but one man alive, and yet I could not
name him. Even as I strained, the tones drew nearer, and they were mixed
with sweeter ones I knew well, and Dorothy's mother's voice. Whilst I
was still searching, the door opened, the voices fell calm, and Dorothy
came in bearing a candle in each hand. As she set them down on the
table, I saw an agitation in her face, which she strove to hide as she
addressed me.

"Will you see a visitor, Richard?"

"A visitor!" I repeated, with misgiving. 'Twas not so she had announced
Comyn.

"Will you see Mr. Allen?"--

"Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne's? Mr. Allen in London, and
here?"

"Yes." Her breath seemed to catch at the word. "He says he must see
you, dear, and will not be denied. How he discovered you were with us
I know not."

"See him!" I cried. "And I had but the half of my strength I would
fling him downstairs, and into the kennel. Will you tell him so for me,
Dorothy?"

And I raised up in bed, shaken with anger against the man. In a trice
she was holding me, fearfully.

"Richard, Richard, you will open your wound. I pray you be quiet."

"And Mr. Allen has the impudence to ask to see me!"

"Listen, Richard. Your anger makes you forget many things. Remember
that he is a dangerous man, and now that he knows you are in London he
holds your liberty, perhaps your life, in his hands."

It was true. And not mine alone, but the lives and liberty of others.

"Do you know what he wishes, Dorothy?"

"No, he will not te