Now, whilst hating himself for the dishonourable sentiment, he was rejoicing that he had not committed himself in words, and would have given anything in the world to blot these last weeks from Margery's memory and his own. He blushed at the thought. He knew it was shameful to entertain it. He asked himself, "What will Mrs. Austin and my mother think of me?" And yet he could see nothing, care for nothing but Clare, and felt that Margery, mother, Mrs. Austin, and the world might judge him as they chose, if only he could win the prize for which so many were contending. Frank did not yield at once to this mad impulse. He fought the sternest battle of his life during the interval between leaving and returning to Monks Lea for the New Year; and he did not prove the victor, as on former occasions. It was easier to slacken his attentions to Margery when they met again, for the Christmas guests who were still there were now shaken together, and more than one amongst these were ready to contend for the place he had occupied. How gradually the change came about need not be fully described; yet Margery was the first to see that the old experience was being repeated, but with this difference, that the young beauty who had captivated so many hearts, only to reject them, had exchanged her own with that of Frank Anstruther. To Margery this knowledge was terrible. So true herself, the selfishness and treachery of the girl to whom she had given an almost worshipping affection, and of the one man whom she had elevated into a hero and on whose truth she would have staked her life, wounded Margery to the core. She stole away to the old nursery, where she found her mother and her faithful Barbara together, and dropping on her knees beside Mrs. Austin's chair, she laid her head on her lap and wept bitterly. It was so unusual for Margery to give way to strong emotion, that her mother was almost frightened by it. But Barbara said, "Let her have the cry out, mistress dear. It will be a relief. If tears and sobs were not given by God to ease overburdened hearts, they would just break." The nurse was right, and following the delicate instinct which told her that mother and child would be better alone, she stole quietly from the room and left them together. Not many words were spoken. Mrs. Austin's tears fell fast in sympathy with Margery's, and now and then she stroked the girl's shining hair, and whispered— "My darling! My precious child! What would I not do for you?" "I know, I know you are true, mother, and sometimes I think there is no one else to be trusted but you. Oh, mother, it seems that those who try to do right always come off the worst!" she wailed in answer. "Not so, my darling. It may seem so in the hour of trial, but not afterwards. Sorrow and suffering dim our mental vision, as tears blind our outward sight. But God makes things plain to us in His good time, and in the meanwhile we have to wait and trust."