"It told me," she continued, "that you would come. I have it here in my pocket--and--and the gate key." She determined this time to introduce the key early in the engagement. "But I feared you might not want to come." The cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in the girl. "That is, you know, I thought--perhaps--that is, I feared that you might not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changed your mind after you wrote the letter." "No," answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was a goddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a little time. "Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change your mind?" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such a speech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key, entangled in the pocket of her gown. "I mean that I have not changed my mind," said John, who felt that the time to speak had come. "There has been no change in me other than a new access of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and to hear your voice." Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that the reward of her labors was at hand. "Certainly," said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words, so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, "I should have known." There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. "But--but you might have changed your mind," she continued, "and I might not have known it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you have never told me." Her tongue had led her further than she had intended to go, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words, appropriately. "My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intention to come. I--I fear that I do not understand you," said John. "I mean," she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she looked up from her conflict with the entangled key, "I mean that--that you don't know what I mean. But here is the key at last, and--and--you may, if you wish, come to this side of the gate." She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say, "Now, John, you shall have a clear field." But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. That discovery brought back to John his wandering wits. "Mistress Dorothy," he cried in tones of alarm, "I must not remain here. We are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trap for us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the trouble and distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly choose another place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet me to-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I have that to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leave you at once." He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.