life-long friendship she would not have come
an inch. But why had she made me stay in London? Why had she spoken so
to Comyn? What interpretation might be put upon a score of little acts
of hers that came a-flooding to mind, each a sacred treasure of memory?
A lover's interpretation, forsooth. Fie, Richard! what presumption to
think that you, a raw lad, should have a chance in such a field! You
have yet, by dint of hard knocks and buffets, to learn the world.

By this I had come in sight of her house, and suddenly I trembled like a
green horse before a cannon. My courage ran out so fast that I was
soon left without any, and my legs had carried me as far as St. James's
Church before I could bring them up. Then I was sure, for the first
time, that she did not love me. In front of the church I halted,
reflecting that I had not remained in England with any hope of it, but
rather to discover the truth about Chartersea's actions, and to save
her, if it were possible. I turned back once more, and now got as far as
the knocker, and lifted it as a belfry was striking the hour of noon. I
think I would have fled again had not the door been immediately opened.

Once more I found myself in the room looking out over the Park, the
French windows open to the balcony, the sunlight flowing in with the
spring-scented air. On the table was lying a little leather book,
stamped with gold,--her prayerbook. Well I remembered it! I opened it,
to read: "Dorothy, from her Mother. Annapolis, Christmas, 1768." The
sweet vista of the past stretched before my eyes. I saw her, on such a,
Mayday as this, walking to St. Anne's under the grand old trees, their
budding leaves casting a delicate tracery at her feet. I followed her up
the aisle until she disappeared in the high pew, and then I sat beside
my grandfather and thought of her, nor listened to a word of Mr. Allen's
sermon. Why had they ever taken her to London?

When she came in I sought her face anxiously. She was still pale; and
I thought, despite her smile, that a trace of sadness lingered in her
eyes.

"At last, sir, you have come," she said severely. "Sit down and give an
account of yourself at once. You have been behaving very badly."

"Dorothy--"

"Pray don't 'Dorothy' me, sir. But explain where you have been for this
week past."

"But, Dolly--"

"You pretend to have some affection for your old playmate, but you do
not trouble yourself to come to see her."

"Indeed, you do me w