ow I must go."

"Stay but one moment," pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry were
aroused. "I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then you
may go."

"I told you that you would want me to remain," said the girl with a sigh.
She was almost ready to weep. Then she thought: "I little dreamed I was
coming here for this. I will carry the disguise a little farther, and
will, perhaps, learn enough to--to break my heart."

She was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more.

"Come sit by me on this stone," said John, coaxingly. The girl complied,
and drew the cloak over her knees.

"Tell me why you are here," he asked.

"To meet a gentleman," she replied, with low-bent face.

"Tell me your name," John asked, as he drew my glove from her passive
hand. John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim light
saw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon. Then he lifted
it to his lips and said:

"Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselves
with each other?" He placed his arm around the girl's waist and drew her
yielding form toward him. Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the false
beard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leaned
forward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain her
tears no longer and said:--

"That would be no consolation for me, John; that would be no consolation
for me. How can you? How can you?"

She rose to her feet and covered her face with her hands in a paroxysm of
weeping. John, too, sprang to his feet, you may be sure. "Dorothy! God
help me! I am the king of fools. Curse this hour in which I have thrown
away my heaven. You must hate and despise me, fool, fool that I am."

John knew that it were worse than useless for him to attempt an
explanation. The first thought that flashed through his mind was, to tell
the girl that he had only pretended not to know her. He thought he would
try to make her believe that he had been turning her trick upon herself;
but he was wise in his day and generation, and did not seek refuge in that
falsehood.

The girl would never have forgiven him for that.

"The only amends I can make," he said, in very dolefulness, "is that I may
never let you see my face again."

"That will not help matters," sobbed Dorothy.

"I know it will not," returned John. "Nothing can help me. I can remain
here no longer. I must leave you. I cannot eve