g me an opportunity to see her, to look
upon her face, and to hear her voice. For her I believe I would sacrifice
every one who is dear to me. One day she shall be mine--mine at whatever
cost--if she will be. If she will be. Ah, there is the rub! If she will
be. I dare not hope for that."

"I think," said I, "that you really have some little cause to hope."

"You speak in the same tone again. Malcolm, you do not understand her. She
might love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and mine
would never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced to
marry me under those conditions. Do not put the hope into my heart."

"You only now said she should be yours some day," I answered.

"So she shall," returned John, "so she shall."

"But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow," said I, my own heart beating
with an ardent wish and a new-born hope, "and you may be unable, after
all, to see Mistress Dorothy."

"That is true," replied John. "I do not know how she will arrange matters,
but I have faith in her ingenuity."

Well might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a will
which usually finds a way.

"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I may
be able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. What
think you of the plan?" I asked.

"If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart."

And so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town for
the purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me the
expedition was full of hazard.

CHAPTER VI

A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN

The next morning broke brightly, but soon clouds began to gather and a
storm seemed imminent. We feared that the gloomy prospect of the sky might
keep Dorothy and Madge at home, but long before the appointed hour John
and I were at the Royal Arms watching eagerly for the Haddon coach. At the
inn we occupied a room from which we could look into the courtyard, and at
the window we stood alternating between exaltation and despair.

When my cogitations turned upon myself--a palpitating youth of
thirty-five, waiting with beating heart for a simple blind girl little
more than half my age; and when I remembered how for years I had laughed
at the tenderness of the fairest women of the French and Scottish
courts--I could not help saying to myself, "Poor fool! you have achieved
an early second childhoo