"Nay," exclaimed the chamberlain, as they attempted to pass up the steps leading to the upper part of the Hall. "'tis against the rules, you know." "All right, John, 'tis all right," replied the baker. "Hubert is going to help me, and you cannot stay me, I trow, or Lady Vernon will come upon thee about the cakes for the feast." There was no gainsaying this argument, for John stood in mortal fear of his mistress, and at the mention of her name he stepped aside and allowed them to pass by. "John likes to be flattered," laughed the baker, as the door closed upon them, "but I use a different weapon. I speak of Lady Vernon, and he always yields." "I saw he was there," replied Manners, "else I had needed no assistance to pass through. He despises us, I verily believe, and likes to show his power. So this is the ballroom, eh? 'Tis a magnificent room, surely," he exclaimed in well-feigned innocence. "The ballroom!" laughed the other, contemptuously. "No, this is but the dining-room. Come, I will show thee the ballroom." "I would linger here awhile," responded Manners, with charming simplicity, "this tapestry takes my fancy so; and the ceiling, with such quaint devices. Nay, there can be naught to better this, I swear." "Then you must stay alone, for I am busy," replied his companion. This was exactly what Manners wanted, and as he offered no opposition, the baker left him alone on the threshold of the ballroom, and returned to attend to his duties. It was a matter of little difficulty to find the hiding, place, for Manners knew it well, and pulling the arras aside, he slid an old oak panel along and stepped into the cavity it disclosed to await with as much patience as he could command the well-known footstep of his beloved. A long time he waited; each passing footstep caused his heart to flutter with expectation, only, however, to leave it to quieten in disappointment as the sounds receded and died away in the echoing ballroom above, or else mingled, maybe, in the turmoil of the busy kitchens below. No Dorothy appeared, and his heart at last began to fail. "Surely she will not come," he murmured at length. "Lettice cannot have been," and his spirit sank within him at the thought. He was cold and fatigued, and once being infected with the idea that he was doomed to disappointment, he quickly discovered all the discomforts of his position and aggravated his misery by adding to them by his own imagination. He had made up his mind to depart, and was about to put his resolution into practice, when a gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. He held his breath to listen. There was surely someone at the door, for he heard the handle turn; it creaked upon its hinges, and a moment later a gentle step resounded on the floor, and he knew that he was not alone. Could it be Dorothy? He pushed the door of his retreat ajar and listened intently, but only the responsive throbbing of his own heart could he hear. "Doll!" he exclaimed.