Your father might have been ill, or you might have changed your mind after you wrote the letter." "No," answered John, whose face was beaming with joy.

Here, truly, was a goddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a little time.
"Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change your mind ?" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such a speech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key, entangled in the pocket of her gown.
"I mean that I have not changed my mind," said John, who felt that the time to speak had come.

"There has been no change in me other than a new access of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and to hear your voice." Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that the reward of her labors was at hand.
"Certainly," said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words, so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, "I should have known." There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head.

"But--but you might have changed your mind," she continued, "and I might not have known it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you have never told me." Her tongue had led her further than she had intended to go, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words, appropriately.
"My letter told you my state of mind.

At least it told you of my intention to come.