“So the wind blows in that quarter!” he mused, while a frown contracted his brow. “I am sorry and disappointed. He is a good lad, worthy of a better woman than that proud, selfish creature. Well, I am an old fool! The sooner I go from here the better. I shall grow too fond of Sholto’s son if I stay much longer.” He walked briskly across the lawn, then turned into the avenue, and approached the gates. The sun was beating down on the hot, dusty lane, the lodge-keeper’s wife was standing, her arms akimbo, talking to some one leaning wearily against the iron pillar. “Good-morning, sir,” she said, courtesying. “May I make so bold as to ask how the young squire is this morning?” “Better--much better,” returned Sir Douglas. “There, Margery--you hear?” the woman turned again to the figure--“better. Lor’, if there ain’t that baby awake! Excuse me, sir;” and, dropping a hasty courtesy, Mrs. Clark rushed into the house. “You have come to inquire after the young squire?” Sir Douglas began, addressing the slender, black-robed girl in kindly tones. The head was bent, the plain skirt was thick with dust; but there was about the young girl’s figure an air of unspeakable grace, and a tress of the red-gold hair that shone beneath the black straw hat gleamed as a touch of wondrous color to the somber picture. Margery raised her head. “Yes, sir,” she replied, and then stopped, almost in alarm. Sir Douglas had moved forward as his eyes rested on her face; his color faded to a deathly whiteness, and he almost staggered against the gate, his eyes still fixed on her wondrous countenance. “Who are you? What is your name?” he gasped, rather than spoke. “Margery Daw,” she answered, trembling a little with fear. Then, seeing his head droop, she added quickly: “You are ill, sir; let me get you some water.” Sir Douglas put out a feeble hand. “It is nothing--a spasm--the heat,” he muttered; then he moved slowly to the lodge door and sunk upon the bench outside. “The heat,” he muttered again, “and a ghost of the past.” Margery went into the cottage, and returned with a glass of water. Sir Douglas took it from her and drank it eagerly. “I have frightened you, child,” he said, abruptly. “Tell me”--he pressed one hand to his side--“you are called Margery Daw. Your mother--what of her?” “I have no mother,” Margery replied, and her lip trembled. “I am alone.” “You live here--have lived here always?” went on Sir Douglas, quickly. “All my life,” she answered. He sank back in the seat again. “It was but my thought,” he murmured; “and yet how like, how like!” “Are you better now?” asked Margery, gently. “Yes, child--yes”--he paused a little--“but I shall go no further.” He rose slowly, his eyes wandering now and again to the girl’s face. “But you--you look tired--what are you going to do?”