His persistence became painful to Lady Elaine. It seemed that he had not implicit trust in her. She who had been so cold and haughty to others--the spoiled child of an indulgent father, the pet of society--became almost a slave to the caprices of her lover. But my lady became indignant at last, and after their interview in the summer arbor she sent for Margaret Nugent--she sent for the cousin who knew Sir Harold’s moods, and would perhaps be able to advise her. Miss Nugent listened, and there was a well-assumed sympathy in her eyes, in her voice--while her heart was throbbing with triumph. “You must not let him have his way in all things, Lady Elaine,” she said. “Time enough for that after marriage. You will lose your self-respect, and he will not value you any the more for that!” “I think that you are right, Margaret, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. He shall not find me so childish in the future. In my great love for him I may have acted weakly. I am the daughter of an earl,” she added, proudly. There was a resolute ring in her tones, and her head resumed its haughty pose. So when Sir Harold came to the Hall next day, an expectant smile upon his lips, a resolve in his heart to beg Elaine’s pardon, and to promise never to offend her again, he was informed by a servant that my lady had gone for a ride, and that she was accompanied by Viscount Rivington. His face turned so white that the man noticed it, and asked: “Are you ill, Sir Harold?” “No,” he returned, shortly. “Which way did her ladyship go?” “In the direction of Ashbourne, Sir Harold.” The baronet rode away, and as he galloped through the park, he saw Viscount Rivington and Lady Elaine crossing a distant hill on their return home. His brain was on fire. He dared not meet them now, and continued on his way--anywhere. For three days he nursed his jealous wrath, and heard no word of Elaine. Then news came to him of a garden party at Seabright Hall, to be followed by a ball. He could bear it no longer. He was consumed with love and wounded pride. “I have given her all,” he told himself; “and get but half a heart in return. She must be everything to me, or nothing!” He rode over to the Hall, but it was not the happy lover; it was a man with a stern, white face. He left his horse in charge of a groom, and asked for Lady Elaine. “I will wait in the west drawing-room,” he told the footman. “Let her ladyship know that I am here as soon as possible.” He paced the floor impatiently, until he saw a vision of loveliness crossing the lawn toward the house. It was Lady Elaine, attired in a diaphanous dress of snowy white. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and in her hands were bunches of wild flowers. “My darling!” he murmured. “Oh, what a brute I am. If she is weak and frail, then Heaven itself is false!” In a little while she came into the room, and his words of welcome died on his lips, for in the eyes of Elaine there was no answering smile.