It was a week after Margaret's wedding in the moldy and dilapidated old church at Sefton, and she and Lord Blair—she and her husband!—were sitting on the cliff at Appleford looking out upon the sea, which lay at their feet like a level opal glistening in the rays of the morning sun.

The history of these seven days might be epitomized in the three words—They were happy!

Happy with the happiness that few mortals experience. Lord Blair had been in love before his marriage, but he was—and, believe me, dear reader, what I am going to state is not too common—he was more in love now, after these seven days, than before.

Margaret was not a girl of whom even the most fickle of mankind could tire easily, and Blair was not the most fickle.

He had often declared that his Madge, as he delighted to call her, was an angel; he married the angel, and discovered that she was a lovely and lovable woman, and I make bold to say—that for sublunary purposes—that is better, from a husband's point of view, than an angel.

"With each rising sun some fresh charm comes to view," says the poet; and Lord Blair found it so with Margaret.

Under the spell, the witchery of her presence, Lord Blair seemed to grow handsomer, younger, more taking, and to Margaret more charming. Oh, why cannot such epochs last forever, until they glide unconsciously into that eternity where all is love and happiness?

On this morning Blair lay stretched at her feet, near enough to be able to touch her hand, to put his arm round her waist. He was dressed in his flannels, she in a plain dress of some soft comfortable material which, while it showed the deliciously graceful outlines of her figure, enabled her to move about freely and without hindrance.

The light of love and happiness played like sunlight on her beautiful face, and glowed starlike in her eyes, which had rested on the glorious view, and now sought her husband's—and lover's—face.

"Madge," he said, after a long silence, during which he puffed at his pipe, "I am going to pay you a big and an awful compliment, and yet it's true—you are the only woman I ever met who didn't bore me!"

"In-deed!" she said, flashing a smile upon him which seemed like a sunbeam.

"It's true," he said with lazy emphasis. "Some women are pretty, and are content with that, and think it's good enough for you to sit and look at them; others are clever, and consider that if they talk and you listen it's all right. But you—why, you are the loveliest woman I know, and you are the cleverest. Madge, dear, I have no right to get the whole thing like this. There are so many better men who deserve it more than I do."

Margaret laughed.

"We don't get our deserts, Blair," she said. "You, for instance, might have married a dragon of propriety, who would keep you in order by the terror of her eye; or a plain heiress, who would bring you a large fortune to waste, anything but a foolish girl, who has no money and no family to bless herself with. There's that boat again! Where is it going?" she broke off.

He raised himself on his elbow indolently.

"That is the Days' boat," he said drowsily. "I don't know where it is going. Fishing, I suppose."

"They can't fish on this tide," said Margaret, who, though she had been only a week in Appleford, had learned more about its ways and habits than Blair would have gleaned in a year.

"No!" he said carelessly. "I can't quite make these Days out. They let us these lodgings, and they make us very comfortable, but I've a kind of feeling that they have some other way of getting their living that I don't understand. Now, why should he go out to sea this morning if he isn't going fishing?"

"The ways of Appleford are mysterious," said Margaret with a laugh, "and it would take a clever man to fathom them."

"Austin, for instance," he said, drawing a little nearer so that he could take her hand.

A slight cloud crossed Margaret's brow.

"I don't know that Mr. Ambrose even would fathom them," she said. "But I have discovered one thing, Blair," and she laughed softly.

"What's that, dear?" he asked.

"Why, that smuggling is not the extinct profession it is generally considered to be!"

"Smuggling!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes," said Margaret. "I am certain that it is carried on here, and I have a shrewd suspicion that the landlord, Mr. Day, is engaged in it."

"Nonsense, Madge!" he said. "What a romantic child it is!"

"But my romance lies within reach of my hand," she murmured, touching his lips with her forefinger and receiving the inevitable kiss. "But I am sure of it. On Thursday night—do you remember how it blew?—no, you were fast asleep! Well, the wind woke me, and I went to the window to close it. And as I stood there I heard Day and his son talking outside. They, of course, thought themselves unheard, or they wouldn't have spoken so loudly."

"And what did they say?" Blair asked, smiling.

"I did not hear all of their talk, but I caught some of it. There were words spoken about 'kegs' and 'brandy' and 'tobacco.' That I am sure of."

Blair laughed.

"Nonsense, darling, you dreamt it!" he said.

Margaret smiled.

"Perhaps so, but it was a very lifelike dream then, and to put a touch of reality to it, I saw a keg of something—spirits or tobacco—in the kitchen the next morning. I asked Mrs. Day what it was, and she said, 'Water.' But there is a capital well just outside the door!"

"Upon my word you would make a first-class detective, Madge!" said Lord Blair, with a laugh, in which she joined.

"Should I not? I had a great mind to ask Mrs. Day to let me have a glass of the water, but I felt that if I were right, the consequences would be too embarrassing."

"I should think so," said Blair. "And you imagine that Day and his son are going on a smuggling expedition now?" and he looked at the boat dancing on the waves beneath them.

Margaret nodded.

"Yes, I do," she replied lightly. "I think that presently Mr. Day, with his little boat, will meet one of those rakish-looking craft in the offing there, and then the rakish-looking craft—isn't that the proper nautical phrase?"

"First rate!" he assented, languidly. "You would make your fortune as a novelist, Madge."

—"Will put a couple of small barrels on board of Day's boat," she said, pinching his ear tenderly. "Day will wait until the tide turns, and then, it being dark, will sail into Appleford harbor with a cargo of fish—and the two barrels. No one will suspect him, least of all the merry and comfortable coastguard; and those two barrels, after resting there for a night, will be sent off to Exeter—or somewhere else!"

Lord Blair laughed with indolent enjoyment.

"Bravo!" he said. "Well, Austin is better than his word. He said Appleford was pretty, but he didn't add that it possessed all the charms that you credit it with."

Once more the faint cloud crossed Margaret's happy face.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Lord Blair pulled a letter from his pocket.

"Yes, this came this morning. I didn't read it through. Austin writes such awfully long letters. Read it yourself, darling, and tell me what it's all about."

Margaret read it.

"There is not much," she said. "He says that no one suspects what—what we did at Sefton, and that he has told every one that you have gone abroad."

Blair laughed.

"Trust Austin to keep a thing secret," he said. "He is the best man in the world at this sort of thing. Now, I should blare out the whole story to the first man I met; but Austin! Oh, Austin could keep his lips shut till he died!"

Margaret looked out to sea, and sighed.

"Now, what does that mean?" he demanded instantly. "Are you tired? Would you like to go in-doors? Are you—unhappy?"

She laughed slowly and softly.

"I think I am too happy!" she said in a low voice. "Blair, it seems to me sometimes as if there were something wicked in being so happy! We are told, you know, that there is no real happiness in this world, and that joy cannot last. If it is true, then—then——" she let her lovely eyes rest upon him doubtfully.

"Nonsense, my darling!" he retorted. "Don't believe it! We were all meant to be happy, but some of us have missed the way. I know what is the matter with you."

"What?" she demanded, her fingers clinging to his lovingly.

"Why, you feel strange without your work. You are an artist, don't you know; and you haven't touched a brush for—well, for seven days. That's bad for you. Oh, I know. I am a simple idiot, but I understand all about this sort of thing. You want to paint. Well, do it," and he threw himself back with a confident air.

Margaret laughed.

"If I wanted to paint ever so much," she said, "I couldn't; I haven't any materials. No colors, no canvas——"

He raised himself on his elbow.

"Oh, that's an easy matter; we can get all that at Ilfracombe. I'll go and get them; it's only a walk, or I can take the boat."

Margaret stopped him with a gesture of curiosity.

"Blair, there is that woman I spoke to you about last night," she said; "there, on that rock."

"What woman?" he asked, without moving.

"That young woman dressed in mourning," said Margaret. "I have seen her three times. I think she must be a widow."

"Oh," he said lazily; "I dare say. Well, about these said drawing materials. I'll walk into Ilfracombe, and get them. No; you sha'n't go. It is too hot, and you will get a headache."

"And do you think I will let you go all that way to gratify a whim which you have fastened upon me, you silly boy?" she said. "Seriously, Blair—don't trouble."

"But that is just what I mean to do," he said. "I don't want you to be bored, even for a moment; and I should feel happier myself if I could see you with your beloved paints and turpentine. You shall make a sketch of Appleford—and we'll hang it up wherever we go, and look at it when we are quite old, so that we may remember that we were 'too happy,' eh, Madge?" and he put his arm round her and kissed her.

At this moment the landlady, Mrs. Day, came from the cottage behind them. She was still a young woman, and her appearance was rather above that of the ordinary Appleford fisherwives. She had an intelligent face that rather impressed one.

Margaret had taken to her at once, and for Margaret Mrs. Day had a warm admiration, which expressed itself in her dark eyes and a smile which shone in them when Margaret spoke to her.

Mrs. Day generally had some knitting in her hands, and the needles were glistening in the sunlight as she approached. She had evidently not seen them, for while her hands were busy her eyes were fixed on the boat, which was gradually making its way across the bay.

Suddenly she lowered her eyes, and catching sight of her lodgers she started slightly, and, with a quick glance from them to the boat, turned to retrace her steps, when Blair called to her.

She came up to them with a little bow, that was almost a courtesy.

"Sorry to call you back, Mrs. Day," said Blair, in his genial manner, which won all hearts; "but I want to know the best way to get to Ilfracombe?"

Mrs. Day's needles stopped.

"The boat's out, sir," she said, "or you could have gone by that."

"Yes, I know that she is," said he, pointing to it; "Day's gone fishing, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Day, promptly and placidly. "There's no train now till the evening, and it's too far for Mrs. Stanley to walk."

"Mrs. Stanley isn't going," said Blair. "I'm going alone."

"Then you could ride, sir," said Mrs. Day: "I could borrow Farmer James' colt, if you cared——"

"The very thing," said Blair, at once.

Mrs. Day inclined her head respectfully.

"I'll go and send for it, sir," she said, with the promptness which had struck Margaret as rather uncommon in a woman of Mrs. Day's class.

In about twenty minutes she came back to them.

"The colt is here, sir," she said, simply.

"Mrs. Day, you would make an excellent aid-de-camp," said Blair, with a laugh, as he jumped up. "Good-bye, Madge; I sha'n't be long. I can't bring all the things, but I'll bring some of them, and they shall manage to send the rest."

Margaret put her arm round his neck. Mrs. Day had retired.

"Don't go, Blair," she said, with sudden and unexpected earnestness. "I don't care about the painting; I would rather——"

"No, no!" he said, steadfastly; "you only say that to save me a little trouble, and all the while I'm feeling glad to be able to do something for you, Madge! Trouble; the ride will be rather jolly. I'll tell you what Ilfracombe looks like, and, perhaps, you'll feel inclined to tear yourself away from your beloved Appleford, and make an excursion."

Margaret turned her face away. A strange and sudden presentiment had taken possession of her, and she was ashamed of it.

"Well, go then!" she said, forcing a laugh; "and if you do not come back, why I shall think Ilfracombe has proved too fascinating."

"All right," he said; "but I think you'll see me back by dinner time."

At the corner of the lane he turned in his saddle and looked round for a last glance at Madge—his wife, his darling—and was rewarded by a wave of her white hand.

"Now, my young friend," he said, addressing the colt, who was rather frisky, "have your little game by all means, but when it's over let us get on, for I'm anxious to get back to that young woman on the hill behind there."

Margaret stood until Blair had disappeared, then she sank onto the ground again.

After all, it had been foolish of her to let him go, or why had she not gone with him? She had had half an idea that the change would be good for him, it was not wise to keep a man tied to your petticoat though he love you ever so truly, and so she had given him his liberty. Well, he would come back at dinner time hungry and gay after his ride, and would love her all the more dearly for the short separation.

After a time she put on her hat and went down into the little fishing town, which clustered on the hill rising from the point where the sea and the two rivers met. It was a quaint old town, quite a hundred years behind the rest of the world, and the people, fishermen and sailors, were supposed to be rather rough; but they had never been rough to her, had never failed in that rustic courtesy which springs from the heart and is much better than the imitation which is manufactured so cleverly in towns.

She wandered to the beach and stood there for awhile, the women looking after her with a smile, the children gazing up at her, as they drew near, with that frank admiration for her beauty which did not always confine itself to looks, for she heard one child say to another:

"That be pretty maiden from London, that be."

An old man was seated on an upturned boat mending a net, and Margaret, feeling lonely, gave him good-evening.

"Good-evening, miss," said the old man, touching the wisp of white hair that shone like snow against his tanned face. "Be 'ee going out for a sail?"

"No," said Margaret, "I am only strolling about."

He nodded approvingly.

"Well, you be wise. Better on land, miss. We're goin' to have a shift in the weather."

Margaret looked at the cloudless sky and smiled down upon him with gentle incredulity; the old man shook his head.

"Oh, it be bright as a new penny now, miss, surely," he said, smiling back, "but it bean't going to last. There's a wisp in the wind as threatens a storm. It 'ull come before night; a tough un, too."

"Oh, I am so sorry," said Margaret. "There are some boats out at sea. Will they be safe?"

"There bean't many," said the old man.

"Mr. Day's boat has gone," said Margaret.

"Ay," he returned, slowly, and he looked steadily at his net. "She'll be safe enow. She's a stiff un, and used to rough weather, miss," and he laughed. "We always have it rough a'most when there's a high, strong tide, and it's very high to-night. You see that rock, miss?" and he pointed to a dark mass that rose on the black line at a little distance from them. "Well, the tide will cover that rock to-night. People won't allus believe it. There was a gentleman and a lady washed off that rock two year agone; they thought themselves safe enow, and was up there to watch the tide come in; they never saw it go out!" and he chuckled grimly.

Margaret shuddered.

"Do you mean that they were drowned?" she said.

"I 'spect," he replied; "leastways, they were never seen again."

"But I thought people who were drowned always came back?" said Margaret.

He shook his head.

"Not hereabouts, miss. There's sands here, miss, as is onreliable and hungry as a wild beastie; things they gets hold of they sticks to."

Margaret, not being desirous of continuing this cheerful conversation, wished him good-day and turned toward the cottage on the cliff.

Luncheon was laid in the neat little room, and she took off her hat and light jersey jacket and sat down with a wee little sadness. It was the first time she had sat down to a meal without Blair since their marriage; and Blair was a person likely to make his loss felt. The little room seemed desolate without his light, musical voice and his quick, ready laugh. Margaret looked round cheerlessly, and thought she wouldn't have any lunch, then she felt ashamed of her weakness, and dreading the look of surprise and astonishment with which Mrs. Day would be sure to view the untouched sole, forced herself to make a "pretending" lunch.

And as she chased a minute piece of fish round her plate with a fork and slice of bread, she fell to thinking of her great happiness, and the difference it had and would make in her life.

She was Blair's wife! Soon all the world would know it, and they would be drawn away from this quiet spot, which was like a placid pool in the whirling river—they would be drawn into the vortex, and be one of the giddy, rushing throng. If they could only always remain serene and happy outside the tumult of the great world!

How surprised everybody would be. The earl, her grandmother, her old companions at the art school! She could almost see her grandmother weeping and laughing over her with loving pride. Then she sighed. With all Blair's flattery she felt so unfit to be a grand lady, a viscountess who would some day wear the Ferrers' coronet!

"If we could only stay as we are," she thought, girl-like. "It is Blair I want, not the title or the money. I would rather live with him here until we die, than be the mistress of Leyton Court. What a pity it is he is not a fisherman! I could have mended nets, and knitted his jerseys, and stockings, and cooked his dinner in time, but to learn to play the part of viscountess!—oh, it frightens me a little!"

But she laughed even as she sighed. For, after all, would not Blair be at her side to guide and protect her, and envelop her with his great, strong love?

She got up and went to the window, and as she did so she picked up a pipe of Blair's and kissed it, though the caress was followed by a grimace.

There were still some long hours to be got through before Blair and happiness came home to dinner, and she was thinking rather disconsolately of another walk when the door opened and Mrs. Day entered.

"There is a lady to see you, ma'am," she said, hesitatingly.

"A lady to see me!" said Margaret, with surprise; then thinking that it might be one of the residents, who had come to pay her the compliment of a call she said, quickly:

"Oh, I am very sorry. Will you say I am not at home, please, Mrs. Day? But are you sure she wishes to see me?—it is so unlikely."

"Yes, she wants to see you, ma'am. She said Mrs. Stanley quite distinctly. And it's no use saying not at home, because she saw you at the window."

Margaret smiled at the unsophistication which was not familiar with the conventional white lie.

"By not at home I mean that I don't want to see her," she said. "She will understand, I think, Mrs. Day."

"Very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Day, and she went out. She was back again in a couple of minutes, however.

"The lady says she has come a great distance on purpose to see you, and begs that you will see her, if only for five minutes, ma'am," she said.

Margaret changed color. Could it be her grandmother?

"Is—is it an old lady?" she asked.

"No, ma'am, quite young, I should think; she has kept her veil down. I'll send her away if you like, ma'am; after all, she sha'n't bother you if you don't want to see her, though she be so pleading."

The last words decided Margaret—and sealed her fate.

"Oh—well—then, I will see her," she said, reluctantly.

"She's in the parlor, ma'am," said Mrs. Day, still hesitating; and Margaret, after that glance in the glass without which no woman ever goes to meet another, passed into the little passage. But she paused, even with her hand on the handle of the door.

After all it was only some stranger come to beg a subscription to one of the local charities; and yet she had come from a distance! Determining to get rid of her as soon as possible—for she knew that Blair would not wish her to see any one—she opened the door and entered the room.

A woman—Margaret's quick eyes saw at a glance that she was young—was seated with her back to the window. She was dressed very simply, and yet tastefully, in clothes that were almost, if not quite, mourning, and she wore a veil.

As Margaret entered, a faint color mounting in her lovely face, the visitor gave a scarcely perceptible start, either of surprise or admiration, and the hand that held her sunshade trembled.

"Do you wish to see me?" said Margaret, in her musical voice, which seemed to affect the visitor as her face had done.

"Yes," she said in a low voice, which she appeared to keep steady by a palpable effort, "You are—Mrs. Stanley?"

The color grew a little deeper in Margaret's cheeks, and her lids fell a little; but she said quietly:

"Yes, I am Mrs. Stanley."

Thereupon the visitor raised her veil, and Margaret saw a face that was pretty, and would have been girlish, but for its pallor and the lines which had been impressed upon it either by sorrow or sickness.

When she raised her veil she let her hands drop into her lap, and clasped them tightly and nervously, and her lips quivered.

Margaret remained standing, but the visitor sank into the seat from which she had risen, as if unable to stand.

"You—you will wonder—you will be surprised at my—my presence," she began, then she broke off and clutched at her dress nervously. "Oh, how can I go on? Bear with me, I beseech you! Be patient with me, I implore!"

Margaret looked down at her with surprise, that slowly melted to pity.

"I am afraid you are in some trouble," she said, gently, and Margaret's voice, when it was gentle, was compounded of the music which is said to disarm savage beasts.

It seemed to move the pale-faced girl strangely. She caught her breath and appeared to wince.

"I am in great trouble," she said. "You cannot tell, you will never know what it has cost me to come to you. But—but it is my only chance!"

She paused to gain breath, and Margaret sank into a chair, and wondered how much she might venture to offer her. She had all the money the earl had given her for her pictures, and some other savings besides. Of course it was pecuniary trouble.

"I am very, very sorry," she said, "and if I can help you——"

"You can, and you only!" said the girl.

"Will you tell me——" murmured Margaret.

"Yes, yes, I will!" she broke in; "but give me a minute, give me time, Mrs. Stanley. I will tell you my story. If it should fail to touch your heart—but it will not; I see by your face that you have a kind heart, that, though it might be led astray, would not do a fellow-creature, a helpless woman like yourself, a deadly wrong!"

Margaret stared at her, then turned pale. That the woman was mad she had now not a shadow of a doubt; and she, not unnaturally, glanced at the door.

The girl seemed to divine her suspicions and intentions, for she put out her hand pleadingly.

"No, I am not mad! You think so now! But you will see presently that I am not! It would be better for me—yes, and for you—if I were! Heaven help us both!"

She panted so and looked so faint that Margaret half rose. There was a carafe of water and a glass on a small table near her, and the girl caught at it and filled the glass, but in lifting it to her lips she spilt some, her hand shaking like an aspen leaf.

"I will try to be calm!" she said, pleadingly, as Margaret took the glass from her. "Mrs. Stanley, I am a poor and friendless girl. I was a governess in a gentleman's family—I am not a lady by birth, but I had struggled hard to qualify myself—and I did my duty, and was"—her voice broke—"happy! One day a gentleman came to visit the family. He was young and handsome; he was more than that, he was gentle and kind to the girl who felt herself so much alone in the world. He used to come to the schoolroom, and sit and talk at the children's tea, with them, and with me. I thought there was no harm in it. I did not guess that it was me he came to see until one day he told me—all suddenly—that he loved me!"

She panted and paused, and moistened her lips, keeping her dark eyes fixed on Margaret's face.

Margaret listened with gentle patience and sympathy, feeling, however, that there was some dreadful mistake, and that the girl had mistaken her for some one else.

"I did not know how it was with me until he spoke those words, but when he said them they seemed to show me my own heart, and I knew I loved him in return. Mrs. Stanley, I was not a wicked girl. No! I did not wish to do wrong, and I told him that he must go, and never see me, or speak to me so again, or that I must leave the place that had become a home to me."

"Poor girl!" murmured Margaret unconsciously.

The girl started, looked slightly—very slightly—confused, as a child does when it is interrupted in the middle of its lesson, then, with a heavy sigh, went on:

"But he would not listen to me; he said that he loved me as an honest girl should be loved. I fought against him and my own heart day after day, but he was too strong, and my love made me weak, and though he was rich and powerful, and I knew I was not fit to be his wife, I consented to marry him."

She stopped and eyed her listener.

Margaret, a little pale, but still wondering, gently opened the window to give her some air.

"Would you like to wait—let me get you some wine?" she murmured.

"No, no! I must go on while I have strength—while you will consent to listen," said the girl. "We were married secretly because he did not wish his powerful relatives to know anything of the marriage for awhile, and his prospects might be brighter. We were married"—she sighed—"and I was happy—oh, so happy!" and the tears coursed down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her handkerchief. "We had a pretty little cottage near London, and my husband seemed as happy as I was. He never wanted to leave my side; and so it went on for months, until—until"—she paused and panted—"until one day my husband left me—he said to see his relatives and find out if he could break it to them. He came back silent and moody, and he went away again all next day. Soon he stayed away for days, then weeks, and at last he left me altogether."

Margaret uttered an inarticulate cry of pity and sympathy and indignation.

"No, no, do not blame him," said the girl. "It was not altogether his fault. He was light-hearted and—and fickle by nature, and it was her fault as much as his."

"Hers?" said Margaret.

The girl looked at her with a vague wonder.

"Yes. Have you not guessed? The other woman!"

Margaret's face flushed.

"No!" she said.

"Yes, there was another woman. I discovered it by accident. I saw them together, and knew in an instant why he had left me. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I, and looked a lady, which I never was. And—and it was not wonderful that he should leave me—a poor, simple girl——"

"It was wicked, cruelly wicked!" exclaimed Margaret, hotly.

The girl sobbed.

"I did not know who she was! She looked good—and yet it was her fault! I went home—after seeing them—and waited for him to come that I might tax him with it! But he never came back! He sent me money—but I would not touch it! I—I had my savings, and I lived on them——"

"That was right!—that was right!" murmured Margaret, her womanly heart aglow.

"And—and I thought that I could learn to let him go, and live without him! But—but it was too hard a lesson! I could not! You see, I loved him so!"

"Poor girl, poor girl! Oh, he was a villain! You should have——" she stopped.

"What should I have done? Gone to him and reproached him? Oh, you do not know him! It would have made him hate me, and parted us forever and ever!"

"The law—there is justice," said Margaret.

The girl shook her head in dull misery.

"No, my pride was too great for that. Besides, I did not want my friends to know how I was treated. There was only one thing to do"—she paused, and her dark, restless eyes fixed themselves covertly on Margaret's face as if she were waiting for a cue.

"What was that?" breathed Margaret, bending forward.

"To go to the girl he had deserted me for, to go to her and pray her to let him come back to me. He was deceiving her, leading her astray, and she might turn on me and laugh at me. But she looked good, and perhaps, who knew, she might listen to my prayer! She could not love him better than I do, and if she did, she might not be so lost to all shame as to keep him from his wife!"

"No, no! you were right!" said Margaret. "Why do you not go to her?"

"I have come to her!" panted the girl. "Oh, Mrs. Stanley!—--" but she stopped perforce, for Margaret's open-eyed bewilderment showed that the words were lost upon her.

"You have come?" she said. "Come where—to whom?"

"I have come here, to you!" exclaimed the girl, stretching out her hands. "Oh, dear lady, you are beautiful, ten times more beautiful than I am; but you look good and kind. Have mercy on me, and give me back my husband!"

Margaret shrank back, paling a little, but once again convinced that she was in the presence of a mad woman.

Yes, that was the key to the whole scene. The woman was one of those monomaniacs who are possessed by the shadow of an imagined wrong, and had pitched upon her as the person who had injured her! She looked toward the door and half rose, but before she could rise from her chair, the girl threw herself on her knees before her, and caught at her dress.

"You do not believe me! You would spurn me! Oh, my dear lady, in Heaven's name, listen to me! Do not turn from me! Think of my great wrong, my broken heart. You think you love him, but remember me! I am his wife—his wife; while you—ah, you have no claim on him! Besides, he has wronged you as cruelly almost as he has wronged me! Do not hesitate, dear, dear lady; have pity on me, and let him come back to me!" she cried, sobbing now bitterly.

Margaret tried to jerk her dress from the clinging hands, but they held too tightly.

"You—you are mad!" she got out at last, in a horrified voice, which she tried to keep steady. "I do not know you—I never saw you before! I know nothing of your husband! It's a mistake, all a mistake. Let me go, please, or I shall call some one——"

"No, no! Listen to me! Be patient with me!" pleaded the girl. "You do not know me, but I know you, though I only saw you and him together once. It was up the river. Oh, I should never, never forget you. Oh, be good to me! Let him come back to me! I am his wife—his wife! You will not, you cannot divide husband and wife!"

"Yes, you are mad!" said Margaret, with conviction. "You have never seen me with your husband!—never! never! Let go my dress!"

"Yes, you!" sobbed the girl. "Do you think I should mistake when all my life hung upon it? I have tried not to mention my husband's name, but you force me to do it. He may have tried to hide it from you—it is possible—but you may know it!"

"Yes, tell me," said Margaret, soothingly, feeling that it would be well to humor her, "tell me; but let go my dress—you frighten me—please."

"His name is Blair! He is Lord Leyton!" sobbed the girl.

Margaret uttered no cry. For a second she seemed as if she had not heard. The room spun round; the blue sky outside the window turned red; and the sofa opposite her seemed to heave as if shaken by an earthquake. Then she laughed.

"You are a wicked woman!" she said, in slow tones of cold anger and contempt—"a very wicked woman! Why have you come here with this story? Do you want money?"

The girl looked up at her with a strange look. Had she expected her victim to take the blow differently?

"You—you don't believe me!" she wailed at last.

Margaret laughed; a short laugh of scorn and contempt.

"Believe you!" she said, and that was all.

Her retort seemed to render the girl desperate.

"You know it is true!" she cried. "You knew that he was married—that I am his wife. He is Lord Blair Leyton; his uncle is the Earl of Ferrers. He is my husband, and you have stolen him from me——"

"You lie!" burst from Margaret's white lips.

The passion that had been smoldering within her bosom leapt like an all-devouring flame to her lips, and she stood over the pale-faced, crouching girl like a goddess, her tall, graceful figure drawn to its full height, her eyes blazing, her hand outstretched as if it held the lightnings of Jove.

No wonder the girl shrank and cowered.

She did more than cower; she hesitated. For in that moment she quailed with fear, and half melted with pity, and shrank with loathing from her hellish task.

It was only for a moment. She had gone too far to go back now. To draw back would lead to exposure and ruin.

"Oh, hush, hush!" she whined. "You are too cruel! You know I speak the truth. We were married on the twelfth of March at St. Jude's—you do not believe me—see there, then; there is the certificate!" and she drew a paper from her breast and held it out, keeping firm grip of it, however.

Margaret stared at her without moving for a moment; then she bent down. For awhile she could see nothing, the paper and the characters on it danced before her eyes. Then her vision cleared, and she saw, still obscurely, the printed and written lines.

It was a certificate of the marriage of Blair, Lord Leyton—it set forth the long string of his Christian names—and Lucy Snowe, at the church of St. Jude, Paddington, on March the twelfth of the present year.

She tried to grasp the paper, but her fingers refused to close on it, and fell limp and useless at her side, and she stood glaring down at the crouching figure at her feet as at some monster.

"Are you convinced?" wailed the girl. "Do you believe me now? Oh, how do you think I should have the heart to tell you such a story? And now—what will you do? Oh, give him back to me! I don't utter a word of reproach against you! No! I know, I feel that he has deceived you—Ah!" she broke out as if she had been stung. "Don't tell me he has married you! If he has, if he has dared to, I'll punish him! I'll send him to penal servitude. I'll——"

Margaret's swooning senses caught the threat, and she held out her hand. It was her turn to plead.

"No, no!" she panted almost inaudibly, "he—he has not! He is nothing to me! You—you shall have him back! Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!" and, with a cry that rang through the room, she fell forward on her face.