During these weeks Geoffrey Baldwin was very miserable. He suffered not merely from his overwhelming anxiety, but also from self reproach and remorse; for, despite all Veronica’s assurances to the contrary, the poor fellow could not rid himself of an utterly irrational notion that in some way or other the annoyance he had caused her had had to do with this sudden and alarming illness. It was not really sudden though. The tension on her nervous system throughout this winter had been great, quite sufficient to account for her present state; the real wonder being that she had held out so long. When at last she began to get better, Geoffrey’s delight was almost piteous. Marion was greatly touched by it—as indeed no woman but must have been—the first time she saw him again. His pleasure at her recovery was purely unselfish, in the ordinary sense at least, for he had altogether renounced the hope of ever winning her for his own. “I only wonder,” he said to Veronica, “that she could forgive my presumption as she did. Since her illness it seems to me she has become more beautiful than ever. I feel myself like a great cart-horse when I am beside her. My only thought is, how I can make up to her for all I have caused her. For indeed her coming to this place at all was greatly owing to me. Even if I did not love her as intensely as I do, Veronica, I could not but reproach myself when I think of my selfishness.” It was useless for his friend to contradict him. It pleased him far more when she set to work to carry out a plan for Marion’s gratification, which at first sight seemed hopeless enough. But between them the two achieved it, and actually obtained Miss Tremlett’s consent to their proposal that, now that she was sufficiently recovered to be moved, Marion Clifford could complete her cure by spending some weeks in Miss Temple’s pretty little house. Miss Tremlett was, in her heart, not sorry to be rid of so troublesome a guest as a bona-fide invalid; though her consent was, of course, bestowed as ungraciously as possible. The relief to Marion, of quitting for a season the ugly, uncomfortable room in which for five weary weeks she had been immured, was unspeakable; and once she was established in the pretty little chamber so carefully prepared for her, she astonished herself and everyone else by the rapidity of her recovery. The long dream was over at last. Ralph was hers no longer, but belonged to another. She wished to hear no particulars; she was satisfied to know the bare fact. She had torn him out of her heart and life, and henceforth would seek to forget she had ever known him. God had been good to her, had given her true and kind friends, whose affection she would do her best to repay, and endeavour to turn to better profit the life so lately restored to her; for it seemed to her, in truth, that in her long illness she had, in a sense, died, and been again raised to life.