mprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with her
and Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I have
told you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed the
beautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.

One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her a
complete suit of my garments,--boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, and
doublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but she
refused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch the
garments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle to
her hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Those
she kept--for what reason I could not guess.

Lady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the key
of the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments,
and the door was always kept locked.

Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, with
intent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy,
mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, acted
faithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she told
me of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person of
Lady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pride
in her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained good
Aunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy's
love-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear of
Sir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.

One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at Lady
Crawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully after
me, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.

I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom,
where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. When
I left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on her
great bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pages
of "Sir Philip de Comynges." The dear old lady was near-sighted and was
slightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was in
deep shadow. In it there was no candle.

My two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching the
sunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with