She threw off her hat, and, suddenly flinging herself upon the couch, gave way to a flood of passionate tears. A thousand thoughts coursed through her mind. Was this the cross of her life? Was all that was beautiful and happy gone forever from her? Was her lot henceforth to be but sorrow and tears? Her spirit recoiled from the vision of grief. Some lines she had read a week before rose to her lips with an agony of despair: “O God, I am so young, so young! I am not used to tears at night Instead of slumber, nor to pray’r With sobbing lips and hands outwrung;” and, uttering a bitter cry, Margery buried her face in her hands till the paroxysm was passed. Fatigue and sorrow had told upon her, and she rose from her knees looking, with her white, tear-stained face, the ghost of the lovely girl of a week before. Her tears had relieved her, the dull pain at her heart was gone; but the passion of her grief had weakened her, and for many minutes she lay back in a chair, the faint breeze stirring the curls on her forehead. Presently the sound of footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she saw Reuben Morris enter the garden, accompanied by a young man, who, despite his handsome face, was certainly of a plebeian stamp. The two men were talking earnestly; and Margery noticed with a pang the stoop in the sturdy shoulders, the worn face of the bereaved man. She had always loved him, though the link that bound her to the dead woman was wanting in her affection for him; and she forgot her own sorrow for the moment in thinking of his. She was leaning back in the shadow, and neither perceived her; but her ears caught her own name; and, too weary to move, she remained in her seat. “Then you have not spoken to Margery yet?” she heard the young man question. “No; but I shall do it afore nighttime. I cannot bear to think of quitting her, poor lamb! But there’s many here as’ll be good to her, and I cannot stay in the place; it would kill me.” “You will be a loss, Morris,” returned the stranger. “Have you sent word to Sir Hubert’s steward about going?” “I’ve just come from him. He spoke very kindly, and tried to persuade me to stay on; but my mind is fixed, and I was firm. Sir Hubert and my lady are not coming home, after all, he tells me, for which I am sorry, as Margery would----” Margery rose and moved into the doorway, holding out her hand to the speaker. “I have heard what you have been saying, Dad Reuben,” calling him by the name she had given him when she was a child. Reuben Morris drew her toward him. “My poor lass!” he said, gently. “How worn and tired you look! I meant to ha’ spoken to you to-night, Margery.” “Tell me now,” she urged, giving her hand to the young man.