The years went quickly by. It was a round of simple duties to Dorcas, enlivened by a keen sense of the beautiful and a quick response to sympathetic needs. The weeks were much alike. First-day meeting, followed by the household laundry work. Fourth-day meeting, succeeded by the mending, sweeping, and baking. This was varied by monthly meeting day dinner, when several Friends were apt to be seated at their board, or a drive to a quarterly meeting in a larger community; and the crowning event--not often enjoyed by Lucretia and Dorcas--of passing a week in the great city at the time of the yearly gathering. It was on one of the latter occasions that Dorcas met and became much interested in a young man who was welcomed by Daniel as the son of a dear and distant friend. She had never mingled with youth a great deal, and George Townsend’s quick wit and good temper were a source of great pleasure to her. She had no idea of marriage in her mind, and when, after months of intimate acquaintance, he directly asked her to become his wife, she shrank from him as if he had struck her. “Does thee feel that I have done wrong?” he gently questioned. “No,” she stammered; but a strange vision of flashing dark eyes and an earnest injunction to “keep just as you are now” made her faint. “Will thee let me dwell upon thy request in solitude?” she said, and the honest-hearted man made answer: “Thee is right to question thy own soul. If there thee finds a single cloud, wait until the light cometh.” When Dorcas sat alone she covered her face with both hands and a few tears trickled between her fingers. Presently she wiped them away, and began to question herself as she would have questioned another. “Why do I hesitate? I am greatly drawn toward George Townsend. Father and mother regard him highly; he is a God-fearing man, capable and conscientious; he is a member of our meeting; his business can be readily arranged so that we may live near my dear parents and bless their declining years. Why not?” To so pure a maiden, one whose affections had never keenly asserted themselves nor been lightly trifled with, the idea of having granted unasked the treasure of her love was in itself a reproach. Dorcas paled in view of the thought to which she felt it right to give definite shape; then she walked restlessly toward the window where once sat the dark-eyed lad, and she said, honestly and bravely: