“A woman’s heart does not forget-- Bid me good-by, and go. You do not love me--no; Bid me good-by, and go. Good-by, good-by--’tis better so; Bid me good-by, and go.” Margery moved dreamily; she opened her eyes. A flood of glorious sunshine filled the room. She felt strangely weak; her hands were almost numb, her head was heavy; she could do nothing but lie back and rest--rest, and listen to the sound of a rich voice singing, somewhat near, a plaintive, sighing song: “You do not love me--no; Bid me good-by, and go. Good-by, good-by--’tis better so; Bid me good-by, and go.” Margery moved again. This time her eyes wandered round the room; it was strange to her. Where was she? What place was this? While a look of perplexity and pain was dawning on her pure, pale face, some one bent over her. “Miladi is better?” “Where am I?” asked Margery, faintly. “Miladi has been ill,” replied the quiet, soothing voice--“very ill. She is by the sea now. Does not miladi hear the waves?” A faint rippling sound was borne in on the silence, mingling with the song without. “The sea!” murmured Margery, vaguely. “Where? Am I dreaming?” “Miladi does not forget me? I am Pauline.” “Pauline!” repeated the girl, striving to dispel the dense cloud that shrouded her memory. “Yes, miladi. I dressed you for your marriage that sad, sad morning.” Pauline spoke slowly. “Can miladi not remember now?” she added, softly. Margery looked at her strangely and intently. “I can remember nothing--I seem to be in a dream.” She put up her left hand to push back the clusters of her hair, and as it fell again to the silken coverlet she gazed at it intently. It looked frail and white, and on the third finger was a ring--a plain, wide band of gold. The maid touched her hand. “It is miladi’s wedding ring,” she said, divining the thoughts of wonder and the speculation that were filling Margery’s mind. “My wedding ring!” echoed the girl, still wonderingly. “Am I married, then?” Pauline looked at her mistress in alarm. Had the fever really touched her brain? She almost feared it. “Miladi will remember,” she whispered, tenderly. “She was married one morning so early, by Lady Enid’s deathbed. Miladi has been ill--delirious since--but she is better now. Miladi must think--must try to remember now for milord’s sake.” “By Lady Enid’s deathbed!” whispered Margery; then the cloud vanished suddenly from her memory, and, with bitter pain, she remembered all.