Madge and her husband went home in the cold autumn dawn—grave and silent both—with faces that looked wan and worn in the clear grey light. Some of the household had sat up all night. Churchill’s body servant, Mrs. Penwyn’s maid, and an underling to wait upon those important personages. ‘There is a fire in your dressing-room, ma’am,’ said Mills, the maid. ‘Shall I get you tea or coffee?’ ‘You can bring me some tea presently.’ And to the dressing-room Mr. and Mrs. Penwyn went. ‘Madge,’ said Churchill, when Mills had brought the tea-tray, and been told she would be rung for when her services were required, and husband and wife were alone together,—‘if I had needed to be assured of your devotion, to-night would have proved it to me. But I had no need of such assurance, and to-night is but one more act of self-sacrificing love—one more bond between us. It shall be as you wish, dearest. I will resign fortune and status, and lead the life you bid me lead. If I sinned for your sake—and I at least believed that I so sinned,—I will repent for your sake, and whatever atonement there may be in the sacrifice of this estate, it shall be made.’ ‘Churchill, my own true husband.’ She was on her knees by his side, her head lying against his breast, her eyes looking up at him with love unspeakable. ‘Will this sacrifice set your heart at rest, Madge?’ ‘It will, dear love, for I believe that Heaven will accept your atonement.’ ‘Remember, it is in my option, however strong these people’s case may be, to compromise matters, to retain the estate, and only surrender half the income—to hold my place in the county—to be to all effects and purposes Squire of Penwyn, to have the estate and something over three thousand a year to live upon. That course is open to us. These people will take half our fortune and be content. If I surrender what they are willing to leave me it is tantamount to throwing three thousand a year into the gutter. Shall I do that, Madge?’ ‘If you wish me to know rest or peace, love. I can know neither while we retain one sixpence of James Penwyn’s money.’ ‘It shall be done then, my dearest. But remember that in making this sacrifice you perhaps doom your son to a life of poverty. And poverty is bitter, Madge. We have both felt its sting.’ ‘Providence will take care of my son.’ ‘So be it, Madge. You have chosen.’ She put her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘My dearest, now I am sure that you love me,’ she said, gently. ‘Madge, you are shivering. The morning air has chilled you,’ exclaimed her husband, anxiously. And then turning her face towards him, he looked at her long and earnestly. The vivid morning light, clear and cold, showed him every line in that expressive face. He scrutinized it with sharpest pain. Never till this moment had he been fully aware of the change which secret anguish had wrought in his wife’s beauty, the gradual decay which had been going on before his eyes, unobserved in the pre-occupation of his mind.