Margery sat on, dazed, almost stupefied. Then gradually memory came back to her, bringing, in all its bitterness, the old pain of the morning, with a fresh pang of sorrow for the man who had just left her. She felt as though she had been cruel to him. He had been so earnest, so eager, and yet there was no hope. No hope! Her heart echoed the dismal words. Life, that had been so bright and beautiful, was now dark and drear as winter gloom. She sat on, heedless of time’s flight, vaguely watching the sun touch the trees with its afternoon gold, and sadly musing on the dark, mysterious future that stretched before her. At last she woke from her sad thoughts. The click of the gate had caught her ear, and she realized that the afternoon was nearly gone. “It is Dad Reuben!” she murmured, and, rising, she dragged herself from the chair, and stood, looking pale and ill, as a shadow fell over the doorway. CHAPTER XII. “You are Margery Daw?” A cold voice fell on Margery’s ear. She turned, and her eyes rested on Vane Charteris, looking inexpressibly lovely and graceful in her white toilet. She looked steadily at Margery, noting with secret pleasure her worn, tear-stained face and dusty, disheveled appearance. “I retract my first opinion,” she said to herself; “the girl is absolutely plain.” Some vague instinct called Margery’s pride to arms. This woman hated her, she felt, though their eyes had met but once before. She drew herself up, and, resting one hand on her chair, faced her unwelcome guest. What had brought her to the cottage? Margery felt her limbs trembling; but her face showed no sign of the agony in her heart. “Yes,” she said, steadily, “I am Margery Daw. Do you wish----” “First, let me express my sympathy for you in your loss,” commenced Vane, modulating her voice to soft accents. She saw at once that Margery regarded her as an enemy; but she did not intend to allow that thought to become rooted. She must clothe her darts with kindness, and with her sweetest words thrust her dagger into this girl’s heart. “None can know but those who have suffered what your grief must be,” she finished, gently. Margery’s head drooped. Had sorrow already destroyed all her good impulses? She was prepared for war, and she met with sympathy, almost tenderness! “You are very good,” she faltered. Vane advanced into the room and pulled forward a chair. “May I sit with you for a while?” she asked. “It is not good for you to be alone like this.” “I like it,” answered Margery, turning her lustrous eyes upon her guest; and as Vane saw their beauty, her brows contracted, and she realized that her first judgment regarding this girl had been right, after all. Her mood changed. When she had considered Margery plain, a half-contemptuous thought had passed through her mind to wound yet retain her sweetness. Now, she felt she cared not how hard she struck to relieve the jealousy and dislike that rankled in her bosom.