ht all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen
disappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned into
the massive gates of her beautiful English home.

Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one:
palatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely
laid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the river.
Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminently
picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn, with
its old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its foregrounds,
and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to
russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic and peaceful
in the moonlight.

With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to a
standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall;
in spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emerged
from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were standing
respectfully round.

Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to alight. She
lingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to one of his
men. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking out
dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace,
in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through: she
could faintly hear the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and
ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.

All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing as they
were being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servant's
feet as they had all gone within to rest: the house also was quite
still. In two separate suites of apartments, just above the magnificent
reception-rooms, lights were still burning, they were her rooms, and
his, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, as
far apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed--at
that moment she could really not have told why.

She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly
she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely, so
bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she
turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely wondering if,
after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.

Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm step upon the
cr