e me. You must think of the grief
and pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: we
women reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love
when I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must
forsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise,
John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."

"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be all
on one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would
forego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth
having. I am unworthy--"

"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well,
not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and I
know I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must
remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but
I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time
comes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not make
it."

"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told him
to-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly
pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if
you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would
welcome you to his heart."

"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery.
"I have always heard--" and she hesitated.

"I know," replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father,
but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and you
may judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"

"Soon, very soon, John," she answered. "You know father intends that I
shall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurries
this marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--be
your--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you."

"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" asked
John, frightened by the thought.

"Ah," cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that God had put into
me a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it
is, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!
You never will know until I am your--your--wife." The last word was spoken
in a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shame