Lady Marion, in her quiet, gentle fashion, had learned to love him. She appealed to him continually; the reading of a book, the singing of a song, the arrangement of a day's plans, the choosing of acquaintances, on each and all of these points she made him her confidant and guide; it was so gently and so naturally done that he insensibly guided her whole life without knowing it. What Lord Chandos said or thought was her rule. It was such a pleasure to guide and advise her, she was so yielding, so gentle, she took such a pride in obeying him; she would apologize to him at times and say: "I told you, Lord Chandos, that I must always have a stronger mind than my own to lean upon." He listened to the words with a smile, but it did just occur to him that she would not have his mind to lean upon much longer, for he must go home to England to Leone. Once or twice lately he had been much struck with Lady Marion's manner. She was so gracious, so charming with him. When he had suddenly entered the room where she was sitting he had seen the crimson blush that rose over her white neck and brow. He noticed too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. And one day he said to her: "Why do you never give me a frank, open look, Lady Marion--such as you gave me always when I knew you first? now you turn your face away, and your eyes droop. Have I displeased you?" "No," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me." "Then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power. "I have no secret," she said; "or if I have it matters little to any one but myself." "Tell me your secret, Lady Marion," he said, with a sigh. "I will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen, Lord Chandos." They were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the words: "'Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess; If there's not too much wind or too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or--you may guess.'" "What beautiful words," he cried. "It seems to me, Lady Marion, that you have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations. You ought to have been a poet yourself." "No," she replied, "I can appreciate, but I cannot invent. I can make the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but I cannot invent or create; I have no originality." "You have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that raises you higher than any other gift could do."