When he had gone, Marion rose from her seat and sauntered to the window. She stood there gazing out at the dreary garden, desolate and bare, save for the leaves thickly strewing the paths and beds. Already her heart was reproaching her for her cruelty; already her conscience was bitterly accusing her. She had done very wrong; she knew, she owned it to herself. But she could not feel responsible, even for her own misdeeds. “They are all a part of the whole,” she cried, “all a part of the wretched, miserable whole.” She “could not help it!” “It was not in her nature to be good when she was miserable.” “And I am no more to blame,” she thought, defiantly, “for being wicked than a flower for not blooming without sunshine.” But does the poor flower resolutely turn from the light? Does it not rather welcome eagerly each narrow ray that penetrates to its dark dwelling, and with humble gratitude make the most of the sunshine vouchsafed to it? Half-an-hour later Marion heard a clatter in the direction of the stables, voices eager and excited—more clatter, the dogs barking. Then the sound of a horse’s feet gradually sobering down into a steady pace, as they were lost in the distance. Geoffrey had gone out riding. And on the new mare, the footman told her, when she rang for coals, and made some indirect enquiry. “Very handsome she is, ma’am,” added he, “but very awkward at starting. My master had some trouble to get her out of the yard. She took fright at a heap of bricks lying there for repairs. Perhaps you heard the noise, ma’am?” “Yes,” said Marion, indifferently, “I thought I heard the dogs barking.” In her heart she felt rather uneasy. She wished she had gone out with her husband to admire his favourite; she wished they had not separated with such angry feelings; she wished he had not chosen to-day for trying the new mare! She put on her hat, and, with a book in her hand, ensconced herself in a sheltered nook, which after some difficulty she succeeded in finding. Out of doors it felt less chilly than in the house, and gradually she grew soothed and calm. She thought to herself she would stay out them for some hours; the day was, after all, mild and pleasant, and the perfect quiet would do her good. But her anticipations were doomed to be disappointed. In less than an hour she heard from her retreat the sound of approaching carriage-wheels, then ladies’ voices at the hall door; and in a few minutes James appeared, breathless in hunting for her in all her usual haunts. “The Misses Copley, if you please ma’am, in the drawing-room.” “Very well,” she replied, half provoked, and yet not altogether sorry for the interruption, “I will be with them directly. The young ladies, you said?” “Yes, ma’am, Miss Copley and Miss Georgie.”