Dorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personal violence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was much stronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon her and she feared to play him any farther. "Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name," said the girl, looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile was playing about her lips. "No, I will not sit by you," replied John, angrily. She partly rose, and taking him by the arm drew him to her side. "Tell me his name," again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. "Tell me his name." "Will you kill him?" she asked. "That I will," he answered. "Of that you may rest assured." "If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you must commit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had my first, last, and only experience." John, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. I freely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interview with Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either you or I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; but this being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just as they happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my conscience will smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last assault was too much for John. He could neither parry nor thrust. Her heart was full of mirth and gladness. "None other but you, John," she repeated, leaning forward in front of him, and looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way between the forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with a goddess-like radiance. "None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall be another." When John's consciousness returned he said, "Dorothy, can you love such a fool as I?" "That I can and that I do with all my heart," she returned. "And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?" "That is easily done," she answered softly, "because doubt is the child of love." "But you do not doubt me?" he replied. "N-o-o," she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman." "And a woman's heart is the home of faith," said John, reverentially. "Y-e-s," she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes it is the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward. Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Even a poor degree of honor responds to it in kind." "Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence," replied John.