"Lettice," exclaimed the other, "could I think this of thee? I had
trusted thee better. What have I done that thou should'st treat me
thus? As for thee--" he said, turning to Manners.

"Tut, man, doff thy cap," interrupted the latter. "This is Mistress
Dorothy Vernon."

"Thou hast met here often enough before," continued the unbelieving
Will, "but I'll warrant me this shall be the last time. Mistress
Dorothy, indeed! A likely story that; but I know that hood too well to
be deceived. You are Sir Edward Stanley, or Master Manners, perchance,
I suppose. Roger Morton shall know of this."

"Lettice is in the hall," said Dorothy. "I know thou art to be
trusted, Will, for Lettice ofttimes speaks of thee. This is Master
Manners. Hush! not a word, tell it not to anyone."

It was the voice of Dorothy, beyond dispute, and not the voice of
Lettice, and the astonished youth dropped down upon his knees and sued
forgiveness.

"And you knew me not?" asked Manners, as he clapped his companion
familiarly upon the back. "I deceived thee, then? Have not the others
found out my disguise? Methinks they have looked at me askance of
late."

The young woodsman rubbed his eyes to convince himself that it was a
reality, and that it was not a vivid dream.