"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, where you should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll go together and release your prisoner." All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over his heart, quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as she said with a hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am making for Mary,--a big boy crying in your arms!" "You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was opening the door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man." "And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queried Mary Broughton, with dignified coquetry. "Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already. And now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, he leaned over and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followed Dorothy into the house. No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously through the pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs. The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of each overlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reaching expanse of the sea. Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, rooms were in the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those of Joseph Devereux were far to the front, and looked out directly upon the grounds and wooded land that ran down to the beach, where the water stretched away to the horizon. They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with the moonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they needed no candle. As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat to tell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, while the solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal. "You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to so disconcert Mary that she said uneasily,-- "Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so." At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's neck. "I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?" Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again. Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned face upon which the moonbeams were resting. "Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know." "And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was crying once more. "Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you." "I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I do or say."