darling husband--I love you
very much, and I thank you for your love."

"Still better," he said, kissing the beautiful, blushing face. "Now go,
Madaline. I understand the feminine liking for a cup of tea."

"Shall I send one to you?" she asked.

"No," he replied, laughingly. "You may teach me to care about tea in
time. I do not yet."

He was still holding the letter in his hand, and the faint perfume was
like a message from Philippa, reminding him that the missive was still
unread.

"I shall not be long," said Madaline. She saw that for some reason or
other he wanted to be alone.

"You will find me here," he returned. "This is a favorite Book of mine.
I shall not leave it until you return."

The nook was a deep bay window from which there was a magnificent view
of the famous beeches. Soft Turkish cushions and velvet lounges filled
it, and near it hung one of Titian's most gorgeous pictures--a dark-eyed
woman with a ruby necklace. The sun's declining rays falling on the
rubies, made them appear like drops of blood. It was a grand picture,
one that had been bought by the lords of Beechgrove, and the present
Lord Arleigh took great delight in it.

He watched the long folds of Madaline's white dress, as she passed along
the gallery, and then the hangings fell behind her. Once more he held up
the packet.

"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Lord
Arleigh."

Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once. He broke the
seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle. He looked at it
in wonder. What could Philippa have to write to him about? The letter
began as follows:

"A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Norman, Lord
Arleigh. You will ask what it is? My answer is, my revenge--well
planned, patiently awaited.

"You have read the lines:

"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'

They are true. Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as I write
this to you. You have scorned me--this is my revenge. I am a proud
woman--I have lowered my pride to you. My lips have never willfully
uttered a false word; still they have lied to you. I loved you once,
Norman, and on the day my love died I knew that nothing could arise from
its ashes. I loved you with a love passing that of most women; and it
was not all my fault. I was taught to love you--the earliest memory of
my life is having been taught to love