"Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice." "To whom, Lady?" asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered an ejaculation under her breath. "To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is no fault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the King has made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln has given him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, and has remitted a debt of thirteen hundred more. A good thing for him!-- and it may be quite as well for Richard. But my poor child! I cannot understand how it is that she does not rouse up and forget her disappointment. It is very strange." It was very strange, to the mother who loved Margaret so dearly, and yet understood her so little. But Doucebelle silently thought that any thing else would have been yet stranger. "And you would have us tell her, Lady?" "It would be as well. Really, I cannot!" The substratum was showing itself for a moment in the character of the Countess. "Dulcie would do it better than I," said Beatrice, "I am a bad hand at beating about the bush. I might do it too bluntly." "Then, Dulcie, do tell her!" pleaded the Countess. "Very well, Lady." But all Doucebelle's unselfishness did not prevent her from feeling that she would almost rather have had any thing else to do. She went back slowly to Margaret's bower, tenanted at that moment by no one but its owner. Margaret looked up as Doucebelle entered, and read her face as easily as possible. "Evil tidings!" she said, quietly enough. "For thee, or for me, Dulcie?" Doucebelle came and knelt beside her. "For me, then!" Margaret's voice trembled a little. "Go on, Dulcie! Richard--" She could imagine no evil tidings except as associated with him. Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort. "Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The--" "Is he dead?" asked Margaret, hurriedly. "No." "I thought, if it had been that,"--she hesitated. "Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?" "Something--what? I see!" and her tone changed. "It is marriage." "Yes, Sir Richard is married to--" "No! Don't tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I do not want to do that." Doucebelle was silent. "Was it his doing," asked Margaret in a low voice, "or did the Lord King order it?" "Oh, it was the Lord King's doing, entirely, the Lady says." "O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be more likelihood of his being happy: but I cannot--I cannot!" "My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!" answered Doucebelle tenderly. "Is it very wicked," added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, "not to be able to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To be shut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else let in! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!" "My poor darling!" was all that Doucebelle could say.