“Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. Tell Mrs. Perry to see that the rooms are prepared, Pauline.” Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner. “I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy here for miladi alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand toilet to-night?” “I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady Court, with a faint smile, which vanished when she was left alone. Her husband was returning again! Once more she would suffer the agony of pain and remorse in his presence; but she must be strong, and remember only her duty and how much she owed him. The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. It was dark and gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that come in November. Margery walked to and fro, till she was wearied, and then turned into a small room that she had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before the fire, resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore a heavy mourning-robe, simple yet costly, and her delicate face and throat gleamed with so dark a setting. She was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her face was only a child’s face. Her youth, the purity of her countenance, her deep sapphire eyes, her curly silken masses of red-gold curls, were the admiration of Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in fragile Sèvres china, and then stood for an instant and looked down on the face that was so fair in the fireglow. “Miladi is tired,” she said, sympathetically; “she walks so much.” “I am a little weary,” Margery answered, waking from her thoughts; “but that is ended now, I hope.” She spoke to herself more than to the maid; her mind was on the one subject that had engrossed her all the afternoon. Pauline smiled; she thought she understood the meaning of her words. “Ah, milord is to return!” she decided, and went away to her room. Margery sat on before the fire. The tea had revived her, yet she seemed strangely agitated as the time drew near for her husband’s arrival. A vague sense of approaching trouble had come over her, and she put her hand to her heart to try to stay its quick, hurried beat. She had been thinking so deeply that her nerves were unstrung. The solitude had tried her, she told herself; yet, even as she whispered this, her heart began to flutter again. It was a strange, incomprehensible feeling, a feeling she had never experienced before, and she longed for, yet dreaded, her husband’s return. At last the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she rose from her seat. “I will be firm--I must forget!” she whispered. “My love, good-by, good-by!” Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall and knew that her husband was close at hand. She turned to greet him as the door opened, and in the dim light she saw two men enter. “Margery, my wife!” said Nugent’s grave, tender voice; and his lips touched hers.