“Home!” repeated Lord Court, tenderly. “Ah, Margery, you cannot know what a wealth of happiness there is in that word! Thank you, dear, for uttering it. Yes, we will go home.” They were silent after this till they reached a quiet street in an unfashionable quarter, and presently the earl handed Margery into the doorway of a tall, gloomy-looking house. “Gerant always stays here,” he said, as they went upstairs. “Will you remain here, my dearest, till I see if he is ready to receive you?” Margery smiled, and waited in a room that looked cozy and picturesque in the fireglow. The walls were hung with weapons of all nations; a heterogeneous mass of quaint, curious things were grouped in corners; carved and painted gourds were placed here and there, with ivory ornaments and rare bits of china. It represented a strange contrast to the dull, ordinary exterior of the house, and Margery found much to attract her till her husband returned. “Now, my darling, come with me. Loose that heavy cloak, or you will be too warm; and, if the old man asks you to sing, will you gratify him?” “With all my heart.” Lord Court led his wife across a passage, and pushed open a door hung with curtains. The room that she entered was almost dark, but Margery saw a low, flat couch pulled near the fire, with a gray head resting on the pillow. She could not see the invalid’s face properly, but a faint something in the dark eyes struck her as familiar. “I have brought my wife to see you, as I promised, Gerant,” said the earl, cheerfully, leading Margery to the couch. “It is kind of you to come, Lady Court,” the sick man answered, in a faint, weak voice. “I have known your husband a long, long time--years, eh, Court?” Where had Margery heard that voice before? It sounded familiar, faint and husky as it was. “I am very glad to come,” she responded, simply, and took the chair the servant pushed forward. “And Margery will sing for you, if you like.” “Margery!” whispered the sick man; and then he tried to raise his head from the pillow. “Margery!” he repeated. “I think Sir Douglas is ill,” said Margery, rather frightened, turning to the servant. “It is weakness, my lady,” returned the man. “Let me raise him a little,” said the earl. “I think he wants to speak.” In a lower tone he added to the servant: “He’s much weaker than he was this morning; what is it?” “Spasms at the heart, my lord; his heart is very weak.” “Don’t be alarmed, my darling,” whispered the earl to Margery. Then he put his arm round the sick man, and raised him easily into a sitting posture. Sir Douglas tried to murmur thanks, but for a few seconds his weakness was too great. Then, as his strength came back, he stretched out a thin, white hand to the girl sitting in the shadow. “Come into the light,” he whispered, “that I might see your face.” Margery slipped her hand into the speaker’s weak, trembling one, and bent toward him as the earl stirred the fire into a blaze.