"Ah," he said, smiling; "there is music yonder, and pretty feet and bright eyes are asking for partners. Why tarryeth the little son of Mars?" "Look here!" cried the boy fiercely; "if you were a man of my years--oh, this is unbearable?" he cried, and he hurried away. "Poor boy!" said Lord Henry softly; "and I am spoiling his happy dream. Ah, well, it was one from which he was bound to be rudely awakened, and Marie--" He paused, and his eyes half-closed. Then he said the name softly to himself: "Marie, Marie! Poor child! she looked heartbroken. Am I a doting old fool to ask myself this question--shall I win her yet?" It would be hard to say who suffered most in the sleepless night which followed, during which Glen paced his bedroom till day, the same daybreak that found Marie, wakeful and feverish, turning upon her weary couch. That morning a note came for her. Elbraham received it and took it to Clotilde. "It is from that wretch," she cried hotly; "burn it." Elbraham did so without a moment's hesitation, and the ashes were still sparkling on the hearth when Marie entered the drawing-room dressed as if for a journey. "Why, Rie!" exclaimed her sister, as Elbraham recalled the past night's scene and felt uncomfortable. "I am going back to Hampton," said Marie quietly and without heeding her sister's extended hands; and on reaching home the honourable sisters were loud in their questions, and full of surprise to see her back, but Marie was reticent. She was not quite well; she was tired with the effects of the party; and she did not think Clotilde wished her to stay longer. "But Clotilde must give way in such cases. It is her duty to study her sister now that she is well married." For the first time in her life Marie saw herself as she was, and at night, when the cousins were alone, and Ruth had been helping her to undress, the latter was startled into a belief that Marie was ill and delirious, for soon after she had dropped into her usual calm and peaceful sleep she was awakened by her cousin, looking strange and pale in her long white robe and with her black dishevelled hair about her shoulders. "Are you ill, dear?" cried Ruth, starting up. "Yes, so ill--so ill!" moaned Marie; and Ruth clasped her affectionately in her arms, to find her eyes wet with tears, and her hands like ice. "What is it?" whispered Ruth; "let me call aunts." "No, no, let me stay here; lie down again, Ruthy: I want to talk to you." "But you are ill, dear!" cried Ruth. "Only in mind, Ruthy. There, lie still, hold my hands and let me lay my head by yours; I want to talk." To Ruth's surprise, Marie sank upon her knees by the bedside, clasped her in her arms, and laid her cheek upon the pillow. "There," continued Marie, "I can talk to you now," and to the wondering girl's astonishment she sobbed hysterically, asking for her sympathy and love. "For I have grown to hate myself, Ruth--to be ashamed of what I am. I'd give the world to be like you."