On the morning of the fourth day, Dorothy came out of her mother's room with a tray of empty dishes in her hands. She saw Evesham at the stair-head and hovered about in the shadowy part of the hall till he should go down. "Dorothy," he said, "I'm waiting for you." He took the tray from her and rested it on the banisters. "Your father and I have talked over all the business. He's got the impression I'm one of the most generous fellows in the world. I intend to let him rest in that delusion for the present. Now may I speak to him about something else, Dorothy? Have I not waited long enough for my heart's desire?" "Take care!" said Dorothy, softly,--"thee'll upset the tea-cups!" "Confound the tea-cups!" He stooped to place the irrelevant tray on the floor, but now Dorothy was half-way down the staircase. He caught her on the landing, and taking both her hands, drew her down on the step beside him. "Dorothy, this is the second time you've taken advantage of my unsuspicious nature! This time you shall be punished! You needn't try to hide your face, you little traitor! There's no repentance in you!" "If I'm to be punished there's no need of repentance." "Dorothy, do you know, I've never heard you speak my name, except once, when you were angry with me." "When was that?" "The night I caught you at the gate. You said, 'I would rather have one of those dumb brutes for company than thee, Walter Evesham.' You said it in the fiercest little voice! Even the 'thee' sounded as if you hated me." "I did," said Dorothy promptly. "I had reason to." "Do you hate me now, Dorothy?" "Not so much as I did then." "What an implacable little Quaker you are!" "A tyrant is _always_ hated," said Dorothy, trying to release her hands. "If you will look in my eyes, Dorothy, and call me by my name, just once,--I'll let 'thee' go." "Walter Evesham!" said Dorothy, with great firmness and decision. "No! that won't do! You must look at me,--and say it softly,--in a little sentence, Dorothy!" "Will thee please let me go, Walter?" Walter Evesham was a man of his word, but as Dorothy sped away, he looked as if he wished he were not. The next evening, Friend Barton sat by his wife's easy-chair, drawn into the circle of firelight, with his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands. The worn spot on the top of his head had widened considerably during the summer, but Rachel looked stronger and brighter than she had for many a day. There was even a little flush on her cheek, but that might have come from the excitement of a long talk with her husband.