‘One word to you, Michael,’ added Magdalen. ‘You look happy now, as I have never seen you look before; and I firmly believe you will be happy. You must have forgiven me long ago for not having married you; and now I should think you join thankfulness to forgiveness. But I wish to tell you that I know I behaved vilely to you—not in breaking off our engagement, but in ever making it; and you treated me better than most men would treat a woman who has cheated them, and then made a mess of her affairs. I wronged you, and I deserve what I have got for it. That is more than I would own to any one else in the world. It will serve as my wedding present to you, Eleanor; there is no testimony to goodness so strong as that which is offered by what is—not goodness. And now,’ she added, looking at the clock, ‘it is time for me to go. I should like to shake hands with you both, and wish you good-bye.’ In her attitude, as she turned towards them, there was something imposing. There was neither softness, nor benignity, nor true nobility—the nobility of soul, that is—in any of her looks or gestures; but there was a certain still, unbending pride, and a dauntless, unquailing gaze into the iron eyes of misfortune which thrilled them both. Eleanor took her hand between both her own, and looked long, earnestly, speechlessly into her face, saying at last— ‘Magdalen, why do you delight to make yourself out a worse woman than you are? Is it nothing that you have done, to live with Miss Strangforth as you did, and treat her so that she thought you an angel? nothing in what you are going to do? For it is a martyrdom to which you doom yourself, say what you please.’ ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Magdalen, with a harsh laugh, looking with a curious expression into Eleanor’s eyes. ‘That’s why I am not a good woman, Eleanor. It is no martyrdom at all. I am glad, I am _glad_ I am going—going to get away from this hateful place, and be married to Otho. And if I had got married to Michael, long before he ever saw you, child, I should have been a miserable woman, and should most likely have done something outrageous, sooner or later. That’s where the badness comes in. Good-bye, Michael.’ ‘Let me come to the train and see you off,’ he said. ‘No, certainly not. You mean to be kind, I know; but I am going alone. If I fancied you were looking after me, I might look back, and not be so delighted with my future as I ought.’ ‘Then, Magdalen, give it up, and stay with——’ began Eleanor eagerly, as she stepped forward with outstretched hands. But the other had gone swiftly out of the room, without looking back, and had closed the door after her. Eleanor turned to her husband, who was looking at her. They confronted each other for a moment or two, till she asked— ‘Is she a heroine, or is she—Michael, what is she?’ ‘She is Magdalen Wynter,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know what she is; but there is certainly some heroine in her.’ ‘To marry Otho!’ murmured Eleanor.