"Dolly, you are a good girl. You know I love and respect you, but you cannot marry my son. I should feel degraded if you were Gilbert's wife."
The blood rushed in a hot tide into the girl's pale wet face, and yet she shivered as if an arrow had pierced her heart. With a low moan her head sunk upon the old man's knee, and she shook and trembled with violent emotion.
"Go," and Rushmere laid his large hand upon the bent head, with all its glossy ebon ringlets—"Go, and God bless you."
Dorothy rose from her knees.
"Your wishes shall be obeyed, father. I will go, as you desire it. Only let me stay this night beneath the roof that has sheltered me so long. I will seek a new home to-morrow. And now, good night. Oh," she cried, in a tone of bitter anguish, "how hard it is to part from all we love. To bid you good night for the last time, in the dear old home."
Their eyes met. The old man drew her down to him and kissed her.
"You must go, Dorothy. I am sorry to part with you, but I do so for Gilbert's sake."
"Who talks of parting? What does all this mean?" cried Gilbert, who had been standing some minutes unobserved in the doorway, hurrying forward. "Who is going away? What is the matter with mother and Dorothy, that they are crying like babies?"
"Gilbert," said Mrs. Rushmere, sorrowfully, "it is Dorothy who is going to leave us."
"Where is she going?"