“You can picture the misery of that day, Margery. I tossed and moaned alone--longing for, yet dreading Nugent’s return. At last he came, and I heard the end--the agony in his face and voice would have wounded you to the quick, Margery. The woman was indeed Roe’s wife, and, when Nugent reached the Gill, he found everything in the wildest confusion. The man and wife had had an interview, in which he informed her that Lord Court knew the truth; and this so incensed her that she drew out a revolver and fired at him. Fortunately, the bullet missed him, and the woman, finding herself baffled, fled. Roe told Nugent the story of his miserable life. His wife had deserted him, destroyed his whole career. He described her as a desperate character, and thoroughly abandoned. His words were true; for, Margery, it was discovered that she had gathered together all the treasures of the Gill, and would have eloped that very night with a man who had served her as groom during her stay there. “Nugent seemed turned to stone when all was over; it almost killed me to see him wandering about listlessly, all happiness crushed out of his life. Then I spoke to him and tried to persuade him to go abroad, to leave Court Manor for a time. At first he would not listen to me; but, after a while, the idea seemed to please him, and he went, leaving me alone and miserable, and I came here, ostensibly to be under the London doctors. I have seen him only for a few days together in the four years that have passed since that time; but his letters of late have been brighter, and I live in the hope that he will return to me as he was before his life was clouded.” “It is a sad story,” murmured Margery. She had risen, and was leaning against the broad chimney-board. Trickery and deceit--who knew better than she how bitter, how terrible they were? Did not her heart beat in warm sympathy for this man, with his wounded heart, his life spoiled by false vows? The story brought back the agony of by-gone days; it paled her face and made her hands tremble. Lady Enid saw the distress she had produced, but attributed it to the girl’s sympathetic nature. “Dear Margery,” she said, gently, “do not look so sad. You have a tender heart, dear; I am sorry I told you.” “I am glad,” Margery murmured, “for it binds us closer together. What suffering there is in the world!” “Sometimes it seems too great for us poor mortals; yet, Margery, this world is not all; we have a source of peace, a Comforter in our greatest trials. You know these lines: “‘I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.’” “They are beautiful!” Margery answered. “But it is hard sometimes to believe them.” “I do not think I should have lived through my trouble if I had not known the truth of them. You have health--while I----” Lady Enid gave a little sigh. “I am selfish--cruelly selfish!” cried Margery, roused by the pathetic sound.