very
precious. More than once, as she repeated the words he had spoken at
parting, she asked herself whether she doubted him after all, and
whether it would not be wiser to speak to the Duke. But then, the latter
so evidently believed in Claudius that it comforted her to think of his
honest faith, and she would dismiss every doubt again as vain and
wearying. But still the eternal question rang loudly in her soul's ears,
and the din of the inquisitive devil that would not be satisfied
deafened her so that she could not hear Miss Skeat. Once or twice she
moved her head nervously from side to side, as it rested on the back of
the chair, and her face was drawn and pale, so that Miss Skeat
anxiously asked whether she were in any pain, but Margaret merely
motioned to her companion to continue reading, and was silent. But Miss
Skeat grew uneasy, feeling sure that something was the matter.

"Dear Countess," she said, "will you not retire to rest? I fear that
this horrid accident has shaken you. Do go to bed, and I will come and
read you to sleep." Her voice sounded kindly, and Margaret's fingers
stole out till they covered Miss Skeat's bony white ones, with the green
veins and the yellowish lights between the knuckles.

Miss Skeat, at this unusual manifestation of feeling, laid down the book
she held in her other hand, and settled her gold-rimmed glasses over her
long nose. Then her eyes beamed across at Margaret, and a kindly,
old-fashioned smile came into her face that was good to see, and as she
pressed the hot young hand in hers there was a suspicion of motherliness
in her expression that would have surprised a stranger. For Miss Skeat
did not look motherly at ordinary times.

"Poor child!" said she softly. Margaret's other hand went to her eyes
and hid them from sight, and her head sank forward until it touched her
fingers, where they joined Miss Skeat's.

"I am so unhappy to-night," murmured Margaret, finding at last, in the
evening hours, the sympathy she had longed for all day. Miss Skeat
changed her own position a little so as to be nearer to her.

"Poor child!" repeated Miss Skeat almost in a whisper, as she bent down
to the regal head that lay against her hand, smoothing the thick hair
with her worn fingers. "Poor child, do you love him so very dearly?" She
spoke almost inaudibly, and her wrinkled eyelids were wet. But low as
was her voice, Margaret heard, and moved her head in assent, without
lifting it from th