d fear
nothing; but you must either speak and give us your reason for this,
or get up and put on your wedding-veil and your shoes, and come down,
where they have been waiting over an hour. You cannot put such a
slight upon my son, or your father, or all these people, any longer.
You do not think what you are doing, Dorothy."

Mrs. Gordon's even, weighty voice softened to motherly appeal in the
closing words. Dorothy remained quite silent and motionless. Then
Burr gave a great sigh of impatient misery, and strode across to
Dorothy, and bent low over her, touching her curls with his lips, and
whispered. She did not stir. "Won't you, Dorothy?" he said, gently,
then quite aloud; and then again, "Have you forgotten what you
promised me, Dorothy?" and still again, "Are you sick? Have I
offended you in any way? Can't you tell me, Dorothy?"

At length, when Dorothy persisted in her silence, he stood back from
her and spoke with his head proudly raised. "I will say no more," he
said; "I have come here to keep my solemn promise, and be married to
you, and here I will remain until you or your father bid me go, with
something more than silence. That may be enough for my pride, but
'tis not enough for my honor. I will go back to your father's study,
Dorothy, and wait there until you speak and tell me what you wish."

Burr turned to go, but Parson Fair thrust out his arm before him to
stop him, and himself came forward and grasped Dorothy, with hardly a
gentle hand, by a slender arm. "Daughter," said Parson Fair in a
voice which Dorothy had never heard from his lips except when he
addressed wayward sinners from the pulpit, "I command you to stop
this folly; stand up and finish dressing yourself, and go down-stairs
and fulfil your promise to this man whom you have chosen." The black
woman pressed forward, then stood back at a glance from her master's
blue eyes.

Dorothy did not stir; then her father spoke again, and his nervous
hand tightened on her arm. "Dorothy," said he, "I command you to
rise"--and there was a great authority of fatherhood and priesthood
in his voice, and even Dorothy was moved before it to respond, though
not to yielding.

Suddenly she jerked her arm away from her father's grasp, and stood
up, with a convulsive flutter of her white plumage like a bird. She
flung back her curls and disclosed her beautiful pale face, all
strained to terrified resolve, and her dilated blue eyes "I will
not!" she cried out, a