e the team through the drifts his own horse
and sleigh would be sent after him the next day. Courthope inquired what
was the wish of the young mistress of the house. The other replied that
mademoiselle approved of his plan. It was evident that poor Madge was no
longer the mistress; the clerk was an emissary of Mrs. King's, and as
such he had taken the control. Still, as he was an amiable and capable
person, Courthope fell in with his suggestion, inwardly vowing that soon
of some domain, if not of this one, Madge should again be queen.

Courthope received a message to the effect that the young ladies wished
to see him. There was something in the formal wording of this message,
coming after his solitary meal, which made him know that they were ill
at ease, that they had taken their mistake more deeply to heart than he
would have wished. He had no sooner entered the room where Madge stood
than he wished he were well out of it again, so far did his sympathy
with her discomfort transcend his own pleasure at being in her
presence.

Madge stood, as upon the first night, behind her sister's chair. Eliz
looked frightened and excited, yet as half enjoying the novel
excitement. Madge, pale-faced and distressed, showed only too plainly
that she had need of all the courage she possessed to lift her eyes to
his. Yet she was not going to shirk her duty; she was going to make her
apology, and the apology of the household, just as the judge, her
father, would have wished to have it made.

It was a little speech, conned beforehand, which she spoke--a quaint
mixture of her own girlish wording and the formal phrases which she felt
the occasion demanded. Courthope never knew precisely what she said. His
feelings were up and in tumult, like the winds on a gusty day, and he
was embarrassed for her embarrassment, while he smiled for the very joy
of it all.

Madge confessed with grief that Eliz had mistaken Xavier for Courthope.
She said the man from the village had shown them what folly it was to
suppose that the gentleman could be Xavier's accomplice. She begged that
same gentleman's pardon very humbly. At the end he heard some words
faltered: she wished it was in their power 'to make any amends.'

Almost before she ceased speaking he took up the word, and his own voice
sounded to him merry and bold in comparison with her soft distressful
speech; but he could not help that, he must speak with such powers as
nature gave him.

'There are