All these epithets she piled on herself. In reality, the Copleys, Margaret especially, thought of her much more kindly than she imagined. They did not, could not, indeed, understand her; few things are more hopeless than any approach to mutual comprehension between the happy and the miserable. The happy, that is to say in the sense in which these inexperienced girls may be called so, happy in utter unconsciousness of the reverse of the picture, thoughtless in the innocent war in which birds and lambs and flowers are thoughtless. But still they were gentle judging, and what in Marion’s character and behaviour they could not understand, they pitied and treated tenderly. The depth of feeling in the few words Geoffrey’s wife had addressed to Margaret that evening by the fire, “I am very unhappy,” rang in the young girl’s ears, and emboldened her to speak kindly in her defence, when, as was often the case (for in country society people must talk about their neighbours or else be altogether silent), young Mrs. Baldwin’s peculiarities were discussed, and that, not in the most amiable of terms. From this time Geoffrey and his wife lived yet more independently of each other than before. One improvement took place in their relations; though after all I hardly know that it merits to be thus described. There was an end henceforth of all stormy scenes between them. So much Marion had resolved upon; coldness and mutual indifference were evidently to be the order of their lives. Let it be so, she decided, it was to the full as much Geoffrey’s doing as hers. But at least she would show herself his equal in the tacit compact: she would not again lower herself by losing her temper and condescending to such aggressive weapons as sarcasm or recrimination. To the letter of the law, she determined in her pride, she would do her duty by him, so that in after days come what might, she need never reproach herself with any short-coming on her side; and Geoffrey for his part, if she should be so fortunate as die and leave him free to choose a more congenial help-meet, might at least remember her with respect, if with no warmer feeling. Foolish, presumptuous child! In the terrible “too late” days—of which the slight experience she had had the evening of Geoffrey’s misadventure in the fog had profited her so little—in those days “the letter of the law,” fulfilled as no fallible mortal yet fulfilled it, would bring with its remembrance sorry comfort. Very “husks that the swine do eat,” nay worse, mocking, gibbering fiends to torment us, are in those days the memories of “duties,” proudly and perfectly but unlovingly performed; acts of obedience, submission, self-denial even, however outwardly flaw-less, without the spirit which alone gives them value.