“Your husband has gone to Beverley Town,” Stuart continued, in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears. “He settled me comfortably in his own ‘den’ before starting, and told me that he would be home to dinner.” Margery bowed her head and turned toward the door, when Stuart moved forward as if to arrest her. “As I shall leave you this evening,” he said, hurriedly, “I will take the present opportunity of informing you that the letter and proofs I spoke of this morning shall be sent to you as soon as possible.” “You are very kind,” responded Margery, as calmly as possible. “Thank you for all you have done.” There was a pause. Margery felt as if some strong, unknown power held her to the spot. She wished to move away, yet could not; and Stuart let his eyes rest on her fair loveliness, feeling that his resolution to depart was growing weaker and weaker as he gazed. “I have done nothing,” he said, almost harshly, trying to hide his agitation. “It is all so new and strange,” murmured the girl, putting one hand to her throat and speaking as if to herself. “How often we have discussed the story of my mother, yet how far we were from the truth! And we were cousins all the time.” “What use is there in recalling the past?” asked the young man, hoarsely. “It can bring nothing but pain.” Margery looked up at his pale, drawn face. “Pain?” she repeated, slowly. “I wonder if you know what pain I have suffered!” She spoke unconsciously, urged by the memory of all her sorrow, her girlish despair and her humiliation. “What should give you pain?” cried Stuart, harshly, folding his arms in his agitation. “You have riches, title; you can do as you will; you are Lady Court.” The bitterness of his voice went to her very heart. “How cruel you are!” she murmured, her head dropping upon her breast. “Cruel?” he repeated, moving to her side, mad with the intoxication of his love and the remembrance of her deceit. “Were you not cruel when you coquetted with me, led me on, lied to me, and then deceived me?” “Deceived you! What do you mean?” Stuart met her clear, blue eyes, startled, yet strangely steadfast. “Why do you say such wicked, such cruel things of me?” she asked. Stuart hesitated for a moment. A sudden strange fear crept into his heart. “You may give them other names,” he said, huskily; “I call it deceit, I call it wickedness to act as you did--to laugh at me, to send false, tender messages the while you were fooling another man, and suddenly to leave the village for him, forgetting me and all the words you had spoken only three days before.” Margery had moved slowly to the table. She still wore the long robe of white serge that she had donned in the morning. She looked up at Stuart, mystified and pained by his words. She put one hand on the table and gazed at her old lover, whose arms were still folded across his breast. “I do not understand,” she said, distinctly yet faintly. “You accuse me of deceit.”