There she lay upon her bed, and for a time her heart was like flint.

Soon she thought of her precious golden heart pierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew the priceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to the God of love for help.

Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers could be, and peace came to her as she pressed John's golden heart to her lips and murmured over and over the words, "My love, my love, my love," and murmuring fell asleep.
I wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace, comfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday?
How many have found them to-day?
How many will find them to-morrow?
No one can tell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life, righteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses.
That evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of the projected Stanley marriage.

It asked him to meet the writer at Bowling Green Gate, and begged him to help her if he could.
The small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, and caution which still remained in John's head--I will not say in John's heart, for that was full to overflowing with something else--were quickly banished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy's letter.

His first impulse was to kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel would make public all he wished to conceal.