"Father wishes it. I believe that it will be better for all parties. You are my only friends; the only parents I have ever known. God, who reads my heart, knows the love I feel for you both, but—but,"—and here poor Dolly broke down, and flinging herself into the kind woman's outstretched arms, they mingled their tears together.
"She is right—quite right," said the old man, too angry to be touched by the grief of the weeping women. "She has been here long enough. It is time she should go."
"And where is the poor child to go?" asked the wife, pressing Dorothy to her warm maternal breast. "Have you the feelings of a man, Lawrence, after she has shared our home for so many years, and been to us a dutiful and loving daughter, to turn her out upon the wide, wide world."
"She shall go," was the dogged reply to his wife's appeal.
"Don't distress yourself, mother, on my account," whispered Dorothy. "I am young and strong. I can work for my living. Never fear. God will raise me up friends, and find me another home." Then turning to Mr. Rushmere, she addressed him with the calm dignity which was natural to her.
"Father, after all the benefits I have received from you we must not part in anger. If I have been in fault, God knows that I have erred through ignorance, that it was wholly unintentional on my part. I acknowledge now, what I did not understand before, that I am not a fit mate for your son. I have given up all idea of being his wife. Speak to me, father. Say that you forgive me, and let us part in peace."
She slid down on her knees before the stern old man, as he sat sullenly in the big arm-chair, and looked imploringly into his face. Her rosy cheeks were deadly pale now, and wet with the tears that flowed unceasingly from her large black eyes.
Rushmere felt rather ashamed of the violent language he had used—he softened a little, and replied in a gentler tone,—