e would answer any questions put to
her--she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her
own accord she never once named him. That did not look like happiness.
She even once, in answer to her mother's questions, described Beechgrove
to her--told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she
told her of the gorgeous Titian--the woman with rubies like blood
shining on her white neck. But she did not add that she had been at
Beechgrove only once, and had left the place in sorrow and shame.

She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Margaret noticed
also that she never spoke of her circle of society--that she never
alluded to visitors.

"It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life," she said,
one day; and Madaline's only answer was that such was really the case.

Another time Margaret said to her:

"You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline. I could
imagine a young wife like you writing every day," and her daughter made
no reply.

On another occasion Mrs. Dornham put the question to her:

"You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband?"

"Love him!" echoed the girl, her face lighting up--"love him, mother? I
think no one in the wide world has ever loved another better!"

"Such being the case, my darling," said Margaret, anxiously, "let me
ask you if you are quite sure he loves you?"

No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her mother's
face.

"I am as sure of it," she replied, "as I am of my own existence."

"Then," thought Margaret to herself, "I am mistaken; all is well between
them."

Madaline did not intend to remain very long with her mother, but it was
soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so dearly. Margaret
startled her one day, by saying:

"Madaline, now that you are a great lady, and have such influential
friends, do you not think you could do something for your father?"

"Something for my father?" repeated the girl, with a shudder. "What can
I do for him?"

A new idea suddenly occurred to Mrs. Dornham. She looked into Lady
Arleigh's pale, beautiful face.

"Madaline," she said, earnestly, "tell me the whole truth--is your
father's misfortune any drawback to you? Tell me the truth; I have a
reason for asking you."

But Lady Arleigh would not pain her mother--her quiet, simple heart had
ached bitterly enough. She would not add one pang.

"Tell me, dear," continued Margaret, earnestly;