"That fact was settled between you and me so long ago that you surprise me by your words," he said, angrily.
"There is such a thing as a person changing her mind," said Dorothy, as she leaped from the carriage, and stood facing him under the trees.
"Surely you do not mean that you have changed yours?" retorted Kendal, knowing that his best policy was to temporize with her.
"I have, indeed," declared the girl; "and you will therefore oblige me, Mr. Kendal, by re-entering your carriage and driving along."
"Do you think I would leave you here, Dorothy," he said, in his most winning voice—"here, at this strange parsonage? I should say not! If you object to marrying me now, I know it is only through pique; but still I say that I shall await your own good time; and, as the song goes, 'When love has conquered pride and anger, you will call me back again.' Do get in, Dorothy, darling; do not make a scene here. See! they are watching us from the window. Get in, and we will drive on to Yonkers. It is only four miles farther up the road. I promise you you shall have your own way. Mrs. Kemp is at the old home. You will be welcomed with open arms."
"Take your hand off my arm, or I shall scream!" cried the girl, struggling to free herself.
Quick as a flash he seized her, and, with the rapidity of lightning, thrust her back into the coach.
"Drive on—drive on!" Kendal yelled to the driver—"you know where!" and despite Dorothy's wild, piercing cries, the coach fairly flew down the white, winding road, and was soon lost to view amid the dense trees.
It soon became evident to Dorothy that she was only losing her strength in shouting for help.
Kendal was leaning back in his seat, with the most mocking smile on his lips that ever was seen.