her arms from my neck.

"Then I will kiss you," she answered, "for you are my dear good brother,
and never so long as I live will I again doubt you."

But she did before long doubt me again, and with good cause.

Dorothy being in a gentle humor; I took advantage of the opportunity to
warn her against betraying John's name to her father. I also told her to
ask her father's forgiveness, and advised her to feign consent to the
Stanley marriage. Matters had reached a point where some remedy, however
desperate, must be applied.

Many persons, I fear, will condemn me for advising Dorothy to deceive her
father; but what would you have had me do? Should I have told her to marry
Stanley? Certainly not. Had I done so, my advice would have availed
nothing. Should I have advised her to antagonize her father, thereby
keeping alive his wrath, bringing trouble to herself and bitter regret to
him? Certainly not. The only course left for me to advise was the least of
three evils--a lie. Three evils must be very great indeed when a lie is
the least of them. In the vast army of evils with which this world swarms
the lie usually occupies a proud position in the front rank. But at times
conditions arise when, coward-like, he slinks to the rear and evils
greater than he take precedence. In such sad case I found Dorothy, and I
sought help from my old enemy, the lie. Dorothy agreed with me and
consented to do all in her power to deceive her father, and what she could
not do to that end was not worth doing.

Dorothy was anxious about John's condition, and sent Jennie Faxton to
Bowling Green, hoping a letter would be there for her. Jennie soon
returned with a letter, and Dorothy once more was full of song, for
John's letter told her that he was fairly well and that he would by some
means see her soon again despite all opposition.

"At our next meeting, my fair mistress," John said in the letter, "you
must be ready to come with me. I will wait no longer for you. In fairness
to me and to yourself you shall not ask me to wait. I will accept no more
excuses. You must come with me when next we meet."

"Ah, well," said Dorothy to Madge, "if I must go with him, I must. Why did
he not talk in that fashion when we rode out together the last time? I
like to be made to do what I want to do. He was foolish not to make me
consent, or better still would it have been had he taken the reins of my
horse and ridden off with me, with or against my will. I m