es before he gave it me."

Dorothy hastily took up the note and read it. Evidently it pleased
her well, for as she perused its contents her countenance flushed with
pleasure.

"Lettice," she exclaimed, "only you and I, besides your father, know
that Hubert is the same as Master Manners. We must keep it secret as
the grave itself. Is he well disguised?"

"In truth, I knew him not until he called me by name."

"'Tis well. He runs a fearful risk. Edward or Thomas Stanley would as
lief kill him as they would a dog did they but recognise him again."

"He has been ill, and he is deadly thin."

"Poor John. He tells me so. I understand all now."

"That will disguise him better than aught else, he said."

"Perhaps it is so, but 'tis a cruel disguise," said Dorothy
sympathetically. "Did he give thee any word for me?"

"Naught, save that I was to tell thee he would write anon, as he could
not see thee. He will hide the letters in the tree that Father Philip
fell against; there is a hole in it, and he has shown it me. But you
will see him soon; he wears a peacock's feather in his cap."

"I should know him well enough without a sign," said Dorothy
decisively, "and he were best without it, for it might lead him into
peril."

"Father will send him with the logs," pursued Lettice. "He came but
yesternight."

"Hush, Lettice, is not that Lady Maude coming?"

"Gramercy no, I hope not, or it might fare ill with us," said the
maid, "but hide the letter, for the love of heaven do," she added
quickly as the footsteps quickly approached.

Quick as thought Doll transferred the missive into her pocket, and,
with a guilty look which she vainly strove to hide, she turned to
brave Lady Vernon.

Lady Vernon it was, but she passed hurriedly along the corridor, and
having escaped thus luckily so far, they waited not to tempt fortune
again, but bidding each other an affectionate "Good-night," Lettice
withdrew, and left Dorothy alone with her newly-gotten joy.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

The moon in pearly light may steep
The still blue air;
The rose hath ceased to droop and weep,
For lo! her joy is there.
He sings to her, and o'er the trees
She hears his sweet notes swim,
The world may weary--she but hears
Her love, and hears but him.

P.J. BAILEY.

John Manners found life uncomfortable enough in the new condition of
life in which he had placed himself. The work was hard, and the fare