Lady Enid stretched out one small hand and drew Margery to her. “You have a sorrow of your own, too!” she said, tenderly. “Ah, yes; I have seen--I know it! Kiss me, Margery! Some day, dear, perhaps you will tell me what it is, and, if I can, with all my heart I will help you.” Margery knelt beside the chair for a few moments; then she raised her head. “Some day I will,” she answered, steadily; then she rose. When the footman appeared with the lamps, Margery turned to the piano. She had a sweet, sympathetic voice; but, though Miss Lawson had taught her music, Margery had had no singing lessons until she came to London to be companion to Lady Enid Walsh. Then, hearing her one night, the young invalid had been charmed, and insisted on Margery’s receiving lessons and studying under one of the best masters in town. She made rapid progress, for she loved all music well. “What will you sing, Margery?” asked Lady Enid, leaning back, watching her young companion’s graceful form with loving eyes. “Elaine’s song, the song of love and death. I have a new setting; it is very sweet.” She played a few bars; then her voice filled the room with melody. “Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain, And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; I know not which is sweeter--no, not I. “Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be. Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die! “Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay-- I know not which is sweeter--no, not I.” “It is too sad!” cried Margery, with forced lightness; the misery of her own lost love was almost choking her. “It is very beautiful,” said some one standing in the doorway. Margery rose quickly, and her eyes rested on the figure of a tall, well-built man, with a keen, dark face, a tawny-brown mustache hiding the mouth, and eyes of such liquid beauty that not even the long scar on the forehead could mar them. Lady Enid uttered a cry of delight. “Nugent--my brother! Oh, thank Heaven! I am so glad--so glad!” Lord Court had left the door, and was bending over the slight figure of his sister. Margery, with tears of sympathy in her eyes, turned away, and was leaving the room, when Lady Enid noticed her. “Margery,” she called, softly, “you must not go;” then, turning to her brother, she said, “Nugent, this is Margery Daw, whom I have so often written to you about; she is my dear friend.” “I am heartily glad to welcome you,” said Lord Court, extending a hand to Margery. “I seem to know you already through my sister’s letters. Let me thank you in both our names for your kind attention to her.” “My small services merit no thanks,” Margery responded, simply. “I would do all in my power for Lady Enid, for I love her.”