"Whist, woman, hold up, don't be arter telling me what to do, or not to do. I'm master o'v my own house any how--an' o'v my own tongue, to boot. I'm glad, right heartily glad that 'tis all off atween Gilbert an' Dolly. Bless me," and he rose hastily from his chair, "I ha' quite forgotten the barley--an' I hear Sam hollowing for me. Well, well, this be the best news that ha' come to the house for many a long day." He left the room rubbing his hands, a fashion he had, whistling and singing alternately a stave of a harvest song. "I'm ashamed of Lawrence," said his kind wife, looking after him with the tears in her eyes. "To hear him singing like a boy, when he knows how the little maid is suffering. Ah, well," wiping her eyes with her apron, "it's no use talking--men never did, and never will understand the feelings of us poor women. It's not in their hard rough nature, so it's no use expecting any sympathy from them." And with a heavy heart, in spite of the good news about her darling son, Mrs. Rushmere commenced clearing the table of the empty platters. And what had become of Dorothy? She left the room scarcely conscious of what she was doing, and, without hat or shawl, wandered out upon the heath. Instinct guided her steps to the lonely hollow, in which had been unfolded the first page in her life's history. There she was sure to be alone. No curious eye would venture there, to mark her grief or probe the anguish of her heart--the spot was haunted ground. There she sat down--not to weep--her sorrow had not as yet found the blessed relief of tears. She could only press her hands tightly over her heart, and from time to time moan piteously--"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Every thing felt so blank and strange. There was such dull emptiness, where a few minutes before there had been such bounding joy. It was long before a wave of thought broke in upon that deep dead calm; or her mind awoke to the painful conviction of her utter bereavement--a loss never again to be recovered in this cold unsympathizing world. Had Gilbert been dead--had he fallen in his first battle, with the blessed consciousness that his last thoughts had been of her, the bitter pang would have been endurable. He still lived, but was dead to her. Nay, worse--he had ceased to love her--had forgotten her--did not trouble himself even to mention her name, or send one kind word of remembrance. This was no casual omission--it was evidently designed. The blow was meant to strike home--to convince her that he had cast her off as a thing not worth remembering, or only as a stumbling block in his path to fortune. Had she deserved this? How full of bitterness was the thought. She could not dismiss it from her mind--it was graven there with a pen of iron. The reality was too certain to admit of excuse or palliation. It had become fact.