ight later than the events
related in the last chapter.

Winnifred is now at the Chase as the guest of the Marquis and
Marchioness. There her bruised soul finds peace.

The Chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or
were till yesterday, the glory of England. The approach to the Chase lay
through twenty miles of glorious forest, filled with fallow deer and
wild bulls. The house itself, dating from the time of the Plantagenets,
was surrounded by a moat covered with broad lilies and floating green
scum. Magnificent peacocks sunned themselves on the terraces, while
from the surrounding shrubberies there rose the soft murmur of doves,
pigeons, bats, owls and partridges.

Here sat Winnifred Clair day after day upon the terrace recovering her
strength, under the tender solicitude of the Marchioness.

Each day the girl urged upon her noble hostess the necessity of her
departure. "Nay," said the Marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay
where you are. Your soul is bruised. You must rest."

"Alas," cried Winnifred, "who am I that I should rest? Alone, despised,
buffeted by fate, what right have I to your kindness?"

"Miss Clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger. There
is something that I wish to say to you."

Then at last, one morning when Winnifred's temperature had fallen to
ninety-eight point three, the Marchioness spoke.

"Miss Clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion,
"Winnifred, if I may so call you, Lord Muddlenut and I have formed a
plan for your future. It is our dearest wish that you should marry our
son."

"Alas," cried Winnifred, while tears rose in her eyes, "it cannot be!"

"Say not so," cried the Marchioness. "Our son, Lord Mordaunt Muddlenut,
is young, handsome, all that a girl could desire. After months of
wandering he returns to us this morning. It is our dearest wish to see
him married and established. We offer you his hand."

"Indeed," replied Winnifred, while her tears fell even more freely, "I
seem to requite but ill the kindness that you show. Alas, my heart is no
longer in my keeping."

"Where is it?" cried the Marchioness.

"It is another's. One whose very name I do not know holds it in his
keeping."

But at this moment a blithe, gladsome step was heard upon the flagstones
of the terrace. A manly, ringing voice, which sent a thrill to
Winnifred's heart, cried "Mother!" and in another instant Lord Mordaunt
Muddlenut, for he it wa