Margery rested quietly in his arms--she had not strength to move--but a tumult of thoughts surged in her brain. Now she must speak, must tell this man of her weakness, of her love. It must be done now in the beginning of their married life; she must not delay; it would be so difficult afterward. And he must know the truth--know that for Enid’s sake she had uttered words that should never have been spoken, that would be as emptiness in her eyes. “I wish to speak,” she murmured, faintly; but the words did not reach her husband’s ears. She was nervously excited, and her strength was already spent. The earl drew her still closer to his breast. “Let me hold you in my arms for one instant, my wife,” he said, tenderly and gravely; “it comes as such a blessed happiness after weeks of misery and suspense that I have endured. Margery, my darling, ours was a strange marriage; but it was tenderly blessed by the smile of one we both loved. Ah, Enid could read the heart well! She saw into the very depths of mine; she knew that its sterile ground had brought forth a pure, holy plant--my love for you! She saw the misery of the past banished from my life by the tender influence of that love, and she realized that life might once more be made bright and beautiful to me--that earthly trust, faith and happiness might yet be mine; and so she gave you, darling, to me, to fill the void her flight would make, to lead me by your sweetness, your tenderness, to things better and purer, like your own self.” A pang of remorse pierced Margery’s heart. Could she speak, and at one word blast this new-found happiness, the Heaven-inspired hopes? No, she had not the courage. She must bury the past. Henceforth Margery Daw, with all that appertained to her, was banished, and Margery, Countess of Court, lived in her stead, strong in the determination to keep her vows and prove herself worthy of the devotion of her husband. She raised her pale, lovely face to his, and a steadfast light shone in her great, blue eyes. “By Heaven’s help,” she responded faintly yet clearly, “I will do it!” Lord Court bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers; then, lifting her tenderly, he bore her to the couch, and laid her once more on the pillows. “You are very frail Margery,” he said, kindly, contemplating her as she lay back wearily; “but now you must make great efforts to get well, and you shall soon go out and feel the sea breezes on your cheeks--perhaps they will bring a little color to them.” “I am always pale,” she whispered, in reply. “How long have I been ill?” “A month now. Ah, I had almost begun to despair--you were so long recovering.” “And--and Enid?” “Is at her old home at last,” said the earl, in a constrained voice. “We carried her down and laid her in the old churchyard. She always wished to be buried there.” “I must go down and see the grave,” murmured Margery.