"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, and I try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love him." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a moment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with you now. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--but I cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his cruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me nor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up to her eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy and Madge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them is torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I promise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them and my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother died--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to leave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life bind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive 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?"