you have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you have
considered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, and
his blood.

During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls of
Haddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.

My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for the
purpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I left
Scotland, suppose I should need Sir George's protection against Elizabeth.
When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, in
addition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. But
I quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew I
could not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it;
and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father's
command. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father,
gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent,
and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.

First I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done with
so much "I" and "me," and you shall have Dorothy to your heart's content,
or trouble, I know not which.

Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of those
wonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature's
drowsiness, just before her long winter's sleep, imparts its soft
restfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy was
ostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting with
butler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend his
men at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon Madge