To-night Dorothy sat alone. Her eyes were heavy, for she had been weeping long. Her sky seemed overcast; there was not a rift discoverable anywhere, and she was almost broken-hearted. Nearly two months had passed, and no sign of her lover had she seen to brighten her. Edward had told her that her lover had renounced her, and in spite of herself she almost began to believe the story. Lettice had gone out on her mission once more, but she questioned whether she would ever go again, and she prepared herself, as the time for the maid's return drew nigh, to receive the usual answer, "No, my lady, not yet." Later than usual Dorothy heard her well-known footstep lightly tripping along the passage. The very lateness of her return inspired her with a ray of hope, and opening the door, she went out to meet her. "Has he come, Lettice, has he come?" she eagerly exclaimed, varying for once her usual despondent query. And, as she asked, her heart fluttered wildly within her, and the hot blood mounted to her cheeks. "I have news of him for thee," returned the maid, gaily. Dorothy was too overcome to speak. The long-expected news had come at last; she fell upon the tire-maid's neck and wept tears of joy, while Lettice drew her unresistingly along, and led her to her little room again. "There," she said, as she closed the doors so that none might hear. "Master Manners sends his duty to thee, my lady." "His _duty_, indeed," she exclaimed, with drooping eyes; "why not his love forsooth?" "'Twas love he said," returned the maid. "He is a forester." "A forester!" echoed Dorothy in amazement. "My John a forester! Not a common woodman, Lettice, surely?" "Aye, but he is. He has done it for thy sake. It was the only way." "And they told me he had forsaken me. Was ever man so noble as he?" "He has sent thee this," said Lettice, as she handed a letter to her mistress. "'Tis but roughly done, but he said you would forgive it, and he sealed it with a score of kisses before he gave it me." Dorothy hastily took up the note and read it. Evidently it pleased her well, for as she perused its contents her countenance flushed with pleasure. "Lettice," she exclaimed, "only you and I, besides your father, know that Hubert is the same as Master Manners. We must keep it secret as the grave itself. Is he well disguised?" "In truth, I knew him not until he called me by name." "'Tis well. He runs a fearful risk. Edward or Thomas Stanley would as lief kill him as they would a dog did they but recognise him again." "He has been ill, and he is deadly thin." "Poor John. He tells me so. I understand all now." "That will disguise him better than aught else, he said." "Perhaps it is so, but 'tis a cruel disguise," said Dorothy sympathetically. "Did he give thee any word for me?"