eward of her devotion. There was, however, another condition imposed
upon her before she might come to Herst and take up permanent quarters
there. This was the entire forsaking of her mother, her people, and the
land of her birth.

To this also there was open agreement made: which agreement was in
private broken. She was quite clever enough to manage a clandestine
correspondence without fear of discovery; but letters, however
frequent, hardly make up for enforced absence from those we love, and
Marcia's affection for her Italian mother was the one pure sentiment in
her rather scheming disposition. Yet the love of riches, that is innate
in all, was sufficiently strong in her to bear her through with her
task.

But now the fear that this new-comer, this interloper, may, after all
her detested labor, by some fell chance become a recipient of the spoil
(no matter in how small a degree), causes her trouble.

Of late, too, she has not been happy. Philip's coldness has been on the
increase. He himself, perhaps, is hardly aware of the change. But what
woman loving but feels the want of love? And at times her heart is
racked with passionate grief.

Now, as she and her lip-love stand side by side in the oriel window
that overlooks the graveled path leading into the gardens, the dislike
to her cousin's coming burns hotly within her.

Outside, in his bath chair, wheeled up and down by a long-suffering
attendant, goes Mr. Amherst, in happy ignorance of the four eyes that
watch his coming and going with such distaste.

Up and down, up and down he goes, his weakly head bent upon his chest,
his fierce eyes roving restlessly to and fro. He is still invalid
enough to prefer the chair to the more treacherous aid of his stick.

"He reminds me of nothing so much as an Egyptian mummy," says Philip,
presently: "he looks so hard, and shriveled, and unreal. Toothless,
too."

"He ought to die," says Marcia, with perfect calmness, as though she
had suggested the advisability of his going for a longer drive.

"Die!" With a slight start, turning to look at her. "Ah! yes, of
course. But"--with a rather forced laugh--"he _won't_, take my
word for it. Old gentlemen with unlimited means and hungry heirs live
forever."

"He has lived long enough," says Marcia, still in the same slow,
calculating tone. "Of what use is he? Who cares for him? What good does
he do in each twenty-four hours? He is merely taking up valuable
room,--keeping what sh