“Madame sends your mother some beef tea, a bottle of brandy, and some fruit and jelly,” said the housekeeper, closing the basket lid. “It is rather heavy; and mind you, carry it carefully. Can you manage it?” “Yes,” said Margery, steadily. “Thank you; I am much obliged.” She turned with her heavy load and walked across the courtyard, her heart no lighter than her basket. That lovely looking stranger had made fun of her--fun--and to Mr. Stuart! Perhaps he had laughed, too. The thought was too painful. And was she not a sight? Look at her old pink gown, well washed and mended, her clumsy boots, her sunburned hands. The memory of that dainty figure looking like a fairy in her delicate garments rose to her mind, and her head drooped. Yes, she was a common village girl--madame treated her as such; and now Mr. Stuart would turn, too. Oh, why could she not tear aside the veil of mystery and know what she really was? Could that face treasured in her locket be only the face of a maid, or did her heart speak truly when it called that mother madame’s equal? Margery was pained and troubled as she took her way along the paddock--pained not so much at the woman’s words as at the thought that the man had re-echoed them and deemed her stupid and plain. She had grown to look on Stuart Crosbie as something bright and delightful in her life. They had played together as children, and the memory of that friendship was the strongest link in the chain that held him as her hero. When he was away, Stuart had written once or twice to Margery, sending her views of the places he visited, and giving her long chatty accounts of his travels. When he came home, they renewed their intimacy; there was not a shadow of surprise or fear in Margery’s mind when the young squire came so frequently to see her. She had no suspicion that this friendship would annoy his mother or was in any way strange or uncommon. She liked Stuart Crosbie; she could talk to him of her studies, her pursuits--a sealed book in her home--and gradually grew to welcome him as a companion with whom she could converse easily and naturally, and as a friend who would never fail her. Mrs. Morris was too great an invalid to devote much thought to the girl’s amusements, nor would she have been greatly troubled had she known how intimate the young squire and Margery had become; so the girl had had no constraint put upon her; she met, walked, and chatted with Stuart Crosbie as freely as she liked, and no cloud had dawned on her happy life till to-day.