The light of the setting sun was gilding the branches of the few trees standing in the center of the square garden. A girl was sitting in a bay window in one of the largest and gloomiest of the houses in the square, apparently watching the sunset; but really the sunset had no charm for her. She was so deep in thought that the sweet tones coming from the further end of the room did not reach her. “Margery!” The girl turned quickly, her musings disturbed by the touch of plaintive wistfulness in the last word. “I beg your pardon, Lady Enid,” she said, hurriedly, moving from the window. “I am sorry to disturb your dreams, Margery,” observed Lady Enid, gently, “but I should like to sit up for a while, and no one can help me like you.” She smiled affectionately as she spoke, her beautiful, dark eyes resting with pleasure on the figure of her young companion; she looked so dainty, so frail, yet so lovely, lying back on her cushions, that it was hard to imagine so fair a form was aught but perfect. It was an angel’s face, pale and sweet, surrounded by short, wavy locks of rich, dark-brown hair, and lighted by a pair of luminous brown eyes. Margery bent quickly and took away the silken coverlet from the couch, then, putting her arm under the slight figure, raised it easily into a sitting position; thence, after a moment’s pause, she assisted the invalid to a large, luxurious chair drawn close at hand. “Thank you,” said Lady Enid, as she reclined against the well-padded, upright back. “How good you are, Margery! What should I do without you?” Margery smiled, and, pushing up another chair, seated herself near the speaker. Two months had passed since she left Hurstley--two long, peaceful months; and, though she could not say she was happy, she was content. She seemed in those eight weeks to have put all girlishness from her; her figure, in the simple gray gown that fitted to perfection, was already touched with the grace of a woman; her face, as lovely as of yore, bore, nevertheless, the traces of thought and the expression of a deep, all-searching mind. She wore her red-gold tresses curled high on her small head, and this gave her a dignified and maturer air. “Do not talk of my goodness,” she answered, lightly. “What are my little efforts, compared with all the kindness you have shown me?” “You cannot guess, Margery, how different my life has been since you came to me. Now, don’t shake your head! I can never say it often enough. Do you know, I had a presentiment that we should become friends the very instant Mrs. Fothergill mentioned your name? Margery Daw! There is a sweetness about it, a touch of romance. I was quite eager you should come, and I was so happy when the letter arrived saying that you would. I am afraid, dear,” Lady Enid added, with a sigh, “that sometimes it is very lonely and dull for you here, with only a poor sick girl for company.” Margery slipped to her knees beside the slight form in its cardinal-colored silk wrapper.