said Jack.

"The sister invited her," said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was
common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee.
She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself.

"The truth is," said Camille, "this is an awful sort of life for a woman
like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it."

"Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and
you, then?" demanded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because
she had no eyes for him.

"My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could,"
responded Camille. "Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer.
Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out."

That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains
at the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had
been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled
of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool,
fragrant sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God
to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his
book-walled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial
one. The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord's life for
knight-errantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of
view. There was no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic,
ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the
agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity
for sufferings of like stress. "And she is a woman and a lady," he said,
aloud.

If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He
could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret
could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But
he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's
liberty was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it.
He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of
old books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over
the mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a
hearth fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could
be when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the
hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and
sequestered life. Here in his native village there