Before six weeks of her visit had passed he had enticed her into a secret marriage, sighing sweetly of “love in a cottage” and the “devotion of a life-time;” and Marion too blissfully happy to stop to look into the future, and enjoying the novelty and romance of her position in being so tenderly loved for her own bright self, never dreamed of the abyss into which she was plunging with such headlong speed. They were married one still summer night, in a little chapel in a neighboring town, by an aged minister, who (somewhat to the surprise and annoyance of Mr. Sumner, who had no idea of carrying the sacrilege so far) gave into the young bride’s hands at the close of the ceremony a certificate of that transaction. But when the time came for her return to her father, Marion began to fear she had made a great mistake, and grave questions began to suggest themselves for answering. How would the proud and aristocratic marquis receive the knowledge of her marriage? How would he regard the son-in-law who would stoop to win and marry his daughter in this underhanded and clandestine manner? During the last week of her stay at Rye, Mr. Sumner informed her that he had received an imperative summons away on business. “But, George, I must go home next week, and then papa must be told of our marriage. I supposed, of course, you would go with me, and we could confess it together,” Marion opposed. Mr. Sumner frowned at this remark, then looked troubled and perplexed. “I cannot go with you now; my summons is positive. You will have to be patient and wait awhile until I can come to you,” he answered, as indifferently as though he had not been plotting the cruelest wrong in the world. “But I want the matter settled. I want papa to see you, and I also wanted to tell you——” She stopped, resolving that she would not tell him of her future prospects until they could confess their secret marriage to her father. “It cannot be just yet,” he said, impatiently, and not heeding her interrupted sentence. “My business must be attended to, and our secret can wait a little longer.” “You are sure you love me only for my very self, George?” she asked, nestling in his arms, and winding her own around his neck. “What else should I love you for, little one?” he returned; and well it was for her peace of mind that she could not see the smile of scorn that curled his lips at her question. She laughed a merry, happy laugh, thinking how proud she should be when he returned to her, and she should tell him that she was the child of a marquis and heiress to almost unlimited wealth. “And you do not regret what we have done?” she asked, laying her golden head upon his breast, with a gesture so full of confidence and love that a feeling of startled fear stole over him for the moment. “What is there to regret, my little one? Have we not been happy as the day is long?” he asked, evasively.