Though she was a woman, the sweet essence of childhood was in her heart.
"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not the truth," answered John, with growing faith in his system of passive repentance.

Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs.
"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe," she said.
Then she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogether disproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before.
She rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she said mischievously:-- "You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at least that part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John, you are downright bashful.

It is I who have been bold.

You were too timid to woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid." "For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest of me.

Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--" "There, there, John," whispered the girl, "I will never again make a jest of you if it gives you pain.