o murder to avoid a fate which to her
would have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her,
now or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself this
question: "If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy's sad case, should I not wish
her to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by any
means, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and should
save me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George had
selected for Dorothy's husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law of
self-preservation actively or passively?" Answer these questions as you
choose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am in
error. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as it
happened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrong
where a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is in
the right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt.

When Sir George heard the woodman's story, he started hurriedly toward
Bowling Green Gate.

Now I shall tell you of Dorothy's adventures after I saw her cross the
Wye.

When she reached the gate, John was waiting for her.

"Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are here
before I arrived--good even," said the girl, confusedly. Her heart again
was beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with ease
and regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she was
afflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting with
my friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one but
John, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to the
ante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope and
fear which Dorothy's letter had brought to him, he had planned an
elaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. He
hoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heart
and breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to make
intercommunication troublesome.

"I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. I
was--I am--that is, my thanks are more than I--I can express."

"So I see," said the girl, half amused at John's condition, although it
was but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, never
takes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influence
they can see the truth through a millstone. The girl'