Days glided on, and Margery grew gradually stronger. October was nearing its close, but still the sunshine was warm and genial, and the wind from the sea soft and gentle. It was quite a little fishing village where the Earl and Countess of Court were staying, a rambling, quaint, three-cornered place, inhabited by healthy, strong-limbed fisher folk. Lord Court had brought his wife down to Wavemouth by the advice of two London physicians, and, when the first week of anxiety was passed, and he saw signs of returning health on her sweet face, he was thankful beyond words. The village people were honored and awestruck by the presence of an earl and countess in their midst; they had few grand visitors at Wavemouth. An artist now and then paid the place a visit--indeed, there was one staying there when Margery arrived. He sketched the ruddy-faced children and made his way to the mothers’ hearts by his sweet, clear voice and gentle manners. Margery learned afterward that the song she had heard so clearly that afternoon when she woke to remembrance had come from this artist’s lips; but she never saw the singer--he quitted the village soon afterward, and left the children and maidens lamenting. Lord Court had brought a low, easy carriage down with them, and he drove his wife about the picturesque village, watching with a throb of pleasure the interest dawn in her face. Wavemouth was so quiet, so peaceful, so completely in keeping with her desire for rest, that Margery loved the place. She was still far from strong, and the sea breezes brought a sense of relief and freshness to her spirit. She was fighting a hard battle with herself, striving with all her might to crush out her old love and turn to her husband, whose depths of goodness and generosity she was learning to know better each day. But as she grew stronger the struggle was more bitter; her thoughts would fly to Hurstley, to the dead Mary Morris whose memory she held so dear, and then to that other who was, despite all her efforts, so inextricably bound up with her existence. The earl, totally ignorant of the secret in his wife’s breast, reveled in his new-found happiness, rejoiced in the possession of his treasure. Day by day he was drawn closer to this girl whose sweetness had been sung by the lips of his dead sister. It was so great a change to him after those four years of ceaseless pain, distrust and darkness! Often in those days he had tried to escape from the remembrance of his life’s mistake; but he could find no relief till that evening when he stood in the doorway listening to the sweet, girlish voice ringing through the room, and then suddenly misery and despair vanished, and hope revived--hope that afterward became a sweet reality. “Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy-- They heed not our expectancy; But round some corner in the streets of life They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”