“Pauline has been showing me my jewels; they are beautiful--too beautiful. I thank you for them all. She tells me that I must wear some rings above my wedding one. Will you put them on?” Pauline had disappeared on a murmured pretext. Lord Court took the slender white hand in his. “It wants no rings to enhance its beauty,” he said, with a smile; “but Pauline is right--you must do as others do, and wear some to guard this band of gold. I have two that will please you, I think, my darling--two I have intended giving you for the past week.” He touched a small spring in the case and disclosed a little drawer. In this two rings were lying; he took them out. “This hoop of diamonds, Margery,” he said, gently, “was my mother’s; it is old-fashioned now, and perhaps----” “Let me wear it,” she whispered, hurriedly. In silence he slipped the circlet over the tiny finger, then pressed his lips to it. “This one you know”--taking up the other. “You have seen it often--the sapphires will match your eyes, sweet--it was Enid’s ring.” Tears sprung to Margery’s eyes as she looked at the glistening stones, and remembered how often she had seen them flashing on the frail, white hand of the dead girl. “They are sacred to me--I shall treasure them both,” she said, reverently, then turned aside with trembling lips. Pauline returned in two minutes, and the jewels were restored to their cases and packed in their iron-bound box for the journey. Margery, wrapped in her furs, took her last look at the sea, its sullen surface already broken by flecks of white. The vast expanse of dull-green water bordered by the gray sky struck her suddenly with a sense of gloom. She turned from it with a sigh of relief; and, as she left it, determined to banish all the dreams and sad recollections it had brought her, burying all memories in its dark, unfathomable depths. So she went away from the quiet village back to London and to life, back to duty, firm in her new-born strength and will. “Ah, they are happy, milord and miladi, both!” sighed Pauline to her companion and fellow traveler, the earl’s valet. “She is so simple and so pretty--and they have love. Ah, monsieur, how great is that wondrous love!” The husband and wife sat silent during the greater part of the journey. Margery, resting her head against the cushions, sat with closed eyes. The earl thought she slept, but sleep was far from her. A vague longing seized her that she might step back into the far distant past, when she knew neither the greatness of joy nor the bitterness of sorrow. If she could be once more the simple-minded girl, living in all contentment her peaceful village life, her studies the one excitement of her days! She was happier then, before she had learned the mystery of her own heart, before childhood had vanished and womanhood had come in its place. CHAPTER XXI.