ng
against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice
calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the
very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.

Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him see them,
she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own
rooms.

Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the
rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own
sufferings seem but light and easy to bear--a strong man, overwhelmed
with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last,
obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly,
blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had
died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in
the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her
small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny
hand had rested last.

CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL

When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious
about her.

"Your ladyship will be so tired," said the poor woman, whose own eyes
were half closed with sleep. "It is past five o'clock."

"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently," said
Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I'll get into bed alone."

"But, my lady . . ."

"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me
alone."

Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's gorgeous
ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.

"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when that was
done.

"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out."

"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."

"Good-night, Louise."

When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw
open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with rosy
light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the
rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and Marguerite looked
down upon the terrace where she had stood a few moments ago trying in
vain to win back a man's love, which once had been so wholly hers.

It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for
Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and
bitter heartache.

Her very limbs seemed to ac