"Do you hate me now, Dorothy?"

"Not so much as I did then."

"What an implacable little Quaker you are."

"A tyrant is always hated," said Dorothy, trying to release her hands.

"If you will look in my eyes, Dorothy, and call me by my name, just once,
I'll let 'thee' go."

"Walter Evesham," said Dorothy, with great firmness and decision.

"No, that won't do! You must look at me, and say it softly, in a little
sentence, Dorothy."

"Will thee please let me go, Walter?"

Walter Evesham was a man of his word, but as Dorothy sped away, he looked
as if he wished that he was not.

The next evening Friend Barton sat by his wife's easy-chair drawn into the
circle of firelight, with his elbows on his knees and his head between his
hands.

The worn spot on the top of his head had widened considerably during the
summer, but Rachel looked stronger and brighter than she had done for many
a day. There was even a little flush on her cheek, but this might have come
from the excitement of a long talk with her husband.