And so it came to pass that John Manners, the nephew of an earl, whose uncle, even now, was high in favour with the Queen, and who had himself bowed the knee on more than one occasion before her throne, had become a woodsman, and joined the foresters of Sir George Vernon. Love, and love alone, could have induced him to humble himself so much. It was for love of Dorothy that he turned his back upon the Royal Court; and now, to win his bride, he was content, nay happy, to discard his own station in life, and take upon himself the lot of a common woodsman. Fortune was indeed leading him by strange paths, but he trusted she would lead him to the prize at last. Dorothy's lot, meanwhile, had not been a bright one. Edward Stanley was relentless, and in answer to her piteous appeals that she loved him not, he cited the baron's words, referred her to the promise Sir George had rashly made to Sir Thomas; he declared that he loved her fervently, and, had it not been for the baron's interference, would have carried her off at the end of a month and have married her straightway. Manners was sternly forbidden her; the gates of Haddon were closed against him, and even an excuse was found to keep Crowleigh away as well. It was fondly hoped that these stringent measures would have the effect of bringing Dorothy to her senses, but their plans completely failed. The maiden began to sicken. The colour fled from her rosy cheeks, and she began to grow rapidly worse. Lady Vernon ascribed it to mere obstinacy, and grew impatient with her, and made her worse than she would otherwise have been by finding fault with everything she did; and by setting her long tasks of tenter-stitching to perform, making her unhappy lot more miserable still. The only friend she had to whom she could unbosom her secrets was her maid Lettice, and during this time the hearts of the two girls were knitted closely together, the one by a craving for sympathy, and the other drawn to love by the dual bond of love and pity. Many a night had these two wept together in the darkness and silence of an unlighted room, and many a time had Dorothy laid her head upon her tire-maid's knee and sobbed until with swollen eyes she had sobbed herself to sleep; and many a night had Dorothy sat alone, forbidden to leave the Hall, while her maid had gone out on a fruitless errand to discover if her lover had yet come. "Not yet?" she would ask, as the maid returned, and Lettice had echoed "Not yet," in reply, until she hated the very sound of the words. "O, Lettice, he has not forgotten me?" she would sob distractedly, as she saw the disappointed face return. "No, never, my lady. Something has happened, surely." "It must be so," her mistress would reply, and then she would relapse into silence.