Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane’s mind, was recovering gradually from the wound that his heart had received. His reckless mood had gone now, and he was once more his calm, manly self; but the happy brightness of his nature was dulled, his light, laughter-loving ways had fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he treasured it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happiness to be realized on earth. The first agony of surprise, doubt and grief over, he grew to judge her as he judged all woman now--he thought of her, not as Margery, the pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly, selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fashionable butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a thing apart from her memory; he deemed her unworthy of so great, so true a feeling; he had worshiped an ideal, and he kept that ideal still shrined in his heart. Growing weary of life in town, Stuart went back to the castle, thankful for the breath of the fresh country air, the rural quiet. He intended to leave England, to travel once again, but his father’s worn face recalled Sir Douglas Gerant’s words, and so, with a little sigh, he buried his own wishes, and gave himself up to minister to the parent who loved him so dearly, and whom he treasured in return. To his mother Stuart was a puzzle. Never once was Margery’s name on his lips, yet his undoubted love for her, as revealed in their one interview, had considerably startled her. She was surprised at his quietness, his acquiescence in her every wish, grew uneasy at his sudden gravity and the sadness of his face, and almost wished for a display of the strong will which for so many years she had deplored. She, too, was anxious that his marriage should be arranged, but had made no remark to him on the subject, deeming the affair best left in Vane’s able hands. Stuart had locked the thick letter which Sir Douglas had confided to his care among the few treasures he possessed, and he waited, expecting news from his cousin every day, but none came. At times Stuart grew uneasy; he saw the announcement of the arrival of the vessel in which Sir Douglas had sailed, and yet his cousin made no sign. All he could do was to wait and hope. He turned his attention to the business connected with the lands and estates of Crosbie Castle, and spent long days with the farmers and laborers, winning their hearts by his warm, generous nature, and the interest he took in their welfare. But this state of things displeased Mrs. Crosbie beyond words. She was an ambitious woman--she longed to see her son enter the world’s lists for fame, and to watch him gradually developing into a quiet farm-owner was more than she could bear. It roused her pride to think that her son should have the whole of his life altered through the sentimental folly of a plebeian romance, and she determined to speak to him openly upon the subject of his career on the first opportunity.