ot an
Englishwoman, you know; I come of a more superstitious race!"

"I am sorry that Miss Briscoe should be the means of bringing these
unpleasant thoughts to you," he remarked thoughtfully. "Mother!"

"Yes, Lumley."

"Would it be a great trouble to you if--some day--I asked you to receive
her as a daughter?"

She stood quite still and shivered. Her face was suddenly of a marble
pallor.

"You--you mean this, Lumley?"

"I mean that I care for her, mother."

"You have not--spoken to her?"

"No. I should not have said anything to you yet, only it pained me to
think that there was anything between you--any aversion, I mean. I
thought that if you knew, you would try and overcome it."

"I cannot!"

"Mother!"

"Lumley, I cannot! She looks at me out of his eyes; she speaks to me
with his voice; something tells me that she bears in her heart his hate
toward me. You do not know these Marionis! They are one in hate and one
in love; unchanging and hard as the rocks on which their castle frowns.
Even Margharita herself, in the old days, never forgave me for sending
Leonardo to prison, although I saved her lover's life as well as mine.
Lumley, you have said nothing to her?"

"Not yet."

"She would not marry you! I tell you that in her heart she hates us all!
Sometimes I fancy that she is here--only----"

"Mother!"

He laid his hand firmly upon her white trembling arm. She looked around,
following his eyes. Margharita, pale and proud, was standing upon the
threshold, with a great bunch of white hyacinths in the bosom of her
black dress.

"Am I intruding?" she asked quietly. "I will come down some other
evening."

Lord Lumley sprang forward to stop her; but his mother was the first to
recover herself.

"Pray don't go away, Margharita," she said, with perfect
self-possession. "Only a few minutes ago we were complaining that you
came down so seldom. Lumley, open the piano, and get Miss Briscoe's
songs."

He was by her side in a moment, but he found time for an admiring glance
toward his mother. She had taken up a paper knife, and was cutting the
pages of her book. It was the _savoir-faire_ of a great lady.

CHAPTER XXIII

MARGHARITA'S DIARY--A CORRESPONDENCE

_Letter from Count Leonardo di Marioni to Miss M. Briscoe, care of the
Earl of St. Maurice, Mallory Grange, Lincolnshire._

"HOTEL DE PARIS, TURIN.

"MY BELOVED NIECE: Alas! I have but another disappointment to recount. I
arrived here las