meet me," she sobbed. "You made me come all the way,
to forgive you. Cruel, cruel!"

John held the girl in his arms, but he did not dare to kiss her, and his
self-denial soon brought its reward. He had not expected that she would
come a beggar to him. The most he had dared to hope was that she would
listen to his prayer for forgiveness. With all his worldly wisdom John had
not learned the fact that inconstancy does not destroy love in the one who
suffers by reason of it; nor did he know of the exquisite pain-touched
happiness which comes to a gentle, passionate heart such as Dorothy's from
the mere act of forgiving.

"Is it possible you can forgive me for the miserable lies I have uttered?"
asked John, almost unconscious of the words he was speaking. "Is it
possible you can forgive me for uttering those lies, Dorothy?" he
repeated.

She laid her head upon his breast, and softly passing her hand over the
lace of his doublet, whispered:--

"If I could believe they were lies, I could easily forgive you," she
answered between low sobs and soft sighs. Though she was a woman, the
sweet essence of childhood was in her heart.

"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not the
truth," answered John, with growing faith in his system of passive
repentance. Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs.

"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe," she said.
Then she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogether
disproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before.
She rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she said
mischievously:--

"You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at least
that part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John,
you are downright bashful. It is I who have been bold. You were too timid
to woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid."

"For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest of
me. Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--"

"There, there, John," whispered the girl, "I will never again make a jest
of you if it gives you pain. Tell me, John, tell me truly, was it all
false--that which you told me about the other women?"

There had been more truth in John's bragging than he cared to confess. He
feared and loathed a lie; so he said evasively, but with perfect truth:--

"You must know, my goddess. If you do n