At first she had smiled as she bent over her sewing--the High Priest far in the recesses of her mind--smiled to think how she would defeat the Master by no other weapons than those easily at hand--beauty and tact and fascination. So from the first, after that little outburst near the Temple, she had taken his criticisms meekly--half acting, half really feeling, as the true actress must ever do. And therein lay the first great germs of danger, that latter half. And each day went by slowly, and each day he came, with the same coldness for her, the same tenderness for little Timothy. And, as the days went by, Marigold felt it very hard to stand. It was as if she were left outside the gates of a sunlit garden--alone in the wilderness--with no one, whilst they two had each other. And by degrees, as he took no notice of her, she took to studying the Master--his fine head, the eyes in which she read all that dangerous tenderness, not meant for her--the whole fascination of a personality no human being yet of Lucifram ever withstood. Why would he not treat her as a child too, and let her join them in the conversation? At times, it was almost more than she could bear--this love of his for the little cripple--this coldness to herself. No wonder that the child-like, merry laugh had vanished--the merry answer from a merry tongue--and the round pink cheeks of happy, thoughtless youth. One day he had come in again in the afternoon, and Timothy’s wooden soldiers were out upon the table. He had sat down beside him, and had arranged them all for marching, and then he told a story about each one--their big adventures--how this one lost an arm, that one a leg, this his nose, and this his head. He told them with such realism and sympathetic feeling, that Timothy sat entranced, Marigold too; she had never heard the Master telling tales before, and had realised only the two extremes of his nature--coldness and tenderness. But now she saw the playful humour in his eyes, watched his power of mimicry, and that great understanding of human nature that underlay it all; and she found herself wondering many times who could he be?--where, after all these years, had he suddenly come from? Sometimes during his visits he would turn to her with an occasional look or word, and now and then their eyes would meet; but, with a sickening feeling of disappointment, Marigold would notice the hard, cold look that immediately stole into his--repellent almost in its severity. Why? Why? Was she not behaving to the best of her ability? Behaving perhaps too well--for it all came so naturally, no acting now--except the forcing back of all feeling--for pride’s sake, yet not quite pride alone. To her, untamed, wholly impulsive, the fight with nature was well-nigh unendurable. Yet who could have passed through that icy barrier he had set between himself and her? And, on the other hand, was Timothy, teaching the big lessons of silence, self-control, and non-complaint.